One of the happiest and most useful customs established by our ancestors, was, without doubt, the village fête the periodical festival that takes place in every hamlet, and at which the inhabitants of the adjoining communes assemble on a specified day to foot it gaily in the dance and drink each other’s health glass to glass in brimming bumpers. These joyous fêtes, a kind of fraternal and social invitation, which are given and accepted by the rural population when spring and verdure made their appearance, are held all over France, and rejoice every heart. In our day, though much shorn of its ancient revelry, and neglected, la fête du village is still kept up, for it is, so to speak, indigenous, a part of our social habits, and like everything which carries within it a generous sentiment, is loved and cherished by the people. As the day approaches every village is suitably decorated, the women are all on the tip toe of excitement to see and be seen, the peasant throws dull care behind him, and the artizans in the nearest town work with renewed energy in order that they may do honour to the occasion. Every one, in short, makes his way to the rendezvous, a merry laugh on his lip and joy in his heart, and, lost in the tumult and general gaiety that prevail, all forget, for some few hours, their hard work and privations.

These festivals offer to each either profit or amusement; the peasants find in them a refreshing and salutary rest from toil, the tradesman fails not to fill his pockets with their hard earnings, the clown shows off his summersets, the young men are touched with the tender passion, and the young girls, with their white teeth and sparkling eyes, await with feigned indifference the proposals of their admirers. The village fête forms a bright epoch in rustic life, and the gay hours passed at them are the happiest, the most joyous, and the most enchanting of the year.

Our ancestors, who knew and more thoroughly understood these matters than we do, who loved a laugh, the dance, and the merry outpourings of the heart, endeavoured by every means in their power to multiply them, and, after having seized upon the name of every saint in paradise, they managed to appropriate, and always for the same motive, all the various occupations known in the cultivation of the fields as a good excuse for holding more of these saturnalia. The season for sowing was one, the hay-harvest another, the wheat-harvest, the period of felling the oaks in the forest were excellent opportunities for establishing a new fête, and consequently buying a new coat, singing a carol, drinking to France, and skipping des Rigodons. For, be it said, one really does amuse oneself in my beautiful country; yes, one amuses oneself, perhaps, much more than one works; there are more Casinos built than acres grubbed up, and is not this partly the reason why the land is so badly tilled and produces only one half of what it should. But what signifies it, after all, if this half is sufficient for us. England, they say, is more opulent and better cultivated; be it so, she is richer, she manufactures more; but is she happier?

Independently of these fêtes, the number of which is infinite, but which occur only, in each locality, once a year, there exist also those merry meetings, which, like the Sunday, are understood by the peasantry as a general holiday. Amongst these, the most animated and attractive, and more usually marked by happy incidents, is that of the first of May. At the earliest dawn of day, the tones of the bagpipe may be distinguished in the distance, coming up the principal street of the village. He who has heard this rustic sound in the happy days of his childhood, under the shade of the elms, will always love the unmusical and melancholy wailing of the bagpipe. The strain has scarcely died away when all the village is alive, every one is up and dressed in his best the children, with enormous nosegays in each little hand, go and present them to their delighted parents, and wish them “un doux mois de Mai.”

Each house, perfumed like a parterre of flowers, opens its doors, and, during the live long day, it is between friends and acquaintance a series of happy smiles, and a mutual exchange of nosegays and hearty shaking of hands. Then in the evening, when the moon has risen in the west over the fir woods, the young lads and lasses, with their fathers and mothers, saunter along the streets arm in arm. At short distances, on the roofs of the houses, are seen, elevated in the air, gigantic chaplets of flowers, illuminated by large torches of rosin. Within these chaplets are others of smaller size. A dance, grand rond, is formed by the young lovers that have carried the May to their sweethearts, who, rising before the dawn, had already gathered the mysterious declaration of love, perfumed and still covered with the tears of night. In this large circle is formed another of children, about ten years of age, and within this again, a third of quite little things; small human garlands within the greater one. And the bagpipe plays, and all the world dance, and every one is happy, and the evening breeze shaking the large chaplets above showers of lilac and hawthorn bloom fall on the dancers and rustic ballroom beneath.

To these village fêtes must be added, to complete the list of our popular holidays the religious festivals, established by the Roman Catholic church, which, in the eyes of our rural population, are the most imposing and magnificent ceremonies of the year. These fêtes are very little known in Protestant countries; a few details, therefore, of one of them, taken at hazard, may please, or at least offer some point of interest to the reader.

In the month of June, when the heavens are all azure, when the sun smiles on us here below, and the summer flowers are all in bloom, the long-expected fête, the Fête Dieu, la fête des Roses, the feast of Corpus Christi, one of the most brilliant festivals of the Roman Catholic church takes place.

Several days before, all the houses appear in a new toilette, decked out with evergreens and branches of the vine and tamarisk, festoons of which are suspended from window to window. All the streets of the village are washed and swept, like a drawing-room. On the preceding evening every garden is opened, the borders are ravaged, baskets-full of roses, armfulls of jasmine, bunches of gilly-flowers and sweet-pea fall under a little army of scissars and white hands. The camellias complain, the héliotropes murmur, all the tribe of tulips are in low spirits, for each family gathers in a perfect harvest of flowers every one remarks to the other “To-morrow is the fête Dieu, the feast of roses the favourite festival of the year.” And when aurora, pale with watching, rises in the cloudless sky, when the cock, herald of the morn, proclaims the birth of another day, when the first golden ray, traversing space, lights the eastern casement, behind which many a lovely bosom heaves, with anticipated conquest and excitement, the bells of the village church are heard, and at this merry signal every one is up and soon busily engaged superintending the preparations for the day.

The streets, as if by enchantment, are carpeted with verdure; the pine, the oak, and the birch, from the neighbouring forest, contribute their young shoots and leaves; the prickly broom its yellow flowers. The façades of the houses are hidden under their various hangings, the rich suspend from their windows their splendid carpets; the poor, sheets as white as driven snow. All ornament them, here and there, with roses, pinks, and carnations. Then, at short distances down the principal street, the young demoiselles of the village erect what are termed reposoirs, a kind of chapel or altar, improvised for the occasion, which lead to an emulation and an animated rivalry perfectly terrible. It is whose shall be the largest, best, and most elegantly decorated, and these young nymphs, usually so reserved and so easily frightened, become, for this week, as bold and free as so many dragoons. They enter the house, without being announced, open the drawers, visit the secretaries, ransack the cupboards. Pirates, with taper fingers, they put into their baskets and réticules all the valuables they can lay their hands on. Objects of art they are sure to seize, more especially if they are made of the precious metals. It is who shall adorn her reposoir with gold and bronze vases, with enamelled cups, pictures, and rich crucifixes. Important meetings are held, in some secret spot, to determine of what form the altar shall be; if the dominating colour shall be blue, purple, or lilac. Then there is a consultation whether the drapery, that is to cover this temporary chapel, shall be with or without a fringe, a discussion which becomes more entangled with difficulties than those in the Parliamentary Club of the Rue des Pyramides, as to the continued existence or demise of our poor constitution. Silk, satin, and velvet ornament the interior of the elegant edifice; the most delicate perfumes burn in each of its corners, and, in order further to embellish the altar on which the Holy Eucharist is to rest for a few minutes, there is a perfect coquetting with chaplets, festoons of gauze, crystal lamps of various colours, and transparencies through which the subdued rays of the sun shed their softened light.

And, when everything is ready, when the mass has been said, when the moment has arrived for the procession to move through the streets, the bells ring a still merrier peal, the great folding-doors of the principal entrance of the church are thrown open, and emerging from thence one sees beneath the vaulted arch, first, the great silver cross, then the banner of the blessed Virgin, carried by a beautiful young girl, dressed in a robe of spotless white; after her come several little children with flaxen heads, their hair parted and flowing on their shoulders, carrying in their hands baskets ornamented with lace, and full of poppies and corn-flowers; behind them are the children of the choir, with their silver-chased incense burners; then two deacons, one carrying on a silver plate the bloom of the vine, the other a head of corn; then four men supporting a large shield, on which are twelve loaves and a lamb, symbolical of the day; and lastly, under a canopy enriched with gold lace and fringe, the old priest, calm and grave, who carries in his hands the Holy Eucharist, followed by a long line of his faithful parishioners, with the mammas and young girls two and two, singing psalms and canticles. In this order they move along the crowded streets, which are strewn with fennel, green branches, and leaves.

From time to time the whole procession halts before some reposoir the little girls drop three curtsies before the beautiful altar, and scatter high in the air handfuls of broken flowers, which shed a delicious fragrance around; the children of the choir wave their censers to and fro, the old priest blesses the crowd who kneel before him, and the smoke of the incense, and the perfume of the roses, ascend towards heaven as the adorations and prayers of all present ascend to God. This, the holiest and most imposing fête of our rural districts, is also the one the most loved. Pity not the peasant, pity not those who are from necessity obliged to live in these retired spots. They have their fêtes as well as the rich, happier and much more magnificent, at which they can be present and form part without paying anything. Nature, too, source of so many marvels, whether she covers the earth with a robe of verdure, or fields of golden corn, or that she shelters it under a mantle of snow, presents to the husbandman some interesting scene. Have they not also the shade and silence of the forest, the eternal freshness of the fountains?

It is true the peasants know nothing of Beethoven’s symphony in C, they are not familiar with the melodies of Rossini, Madame Grisi has never in her terrible finale “Qual cor tradisti” made them weep, nor has the orchestra of Monsieur Jullien made them deaf. But what are these splendid wonders of the town to them? Have they not a melodious choir of birds to arouse them each morning from their slumbers? have they not as scenes, the woods, the bubbling waters, verdant valleys, real sunrises and sunsets? Can they not, seated on the summit of some hill, round which the breeze of evening plays, gaze upon the glorious sky above them spangled with stars, those unfading flowers of Heaven? Say, reader, is not this hill a charming pit-stall, and much preferable to the narrow crimson section of the bench at the Opera? These are some of their enjoyments; then how could they with any degree of pleasure stick themselves up like logs of wood or trusses of hay before a row of lurid lamps, to admire some painted men and women mincing up and down the stage, or peer through two telescopes at forests of painted calico and moons cut out of pasteboard, or listen to hackneyed airs which have been sung and resung a hundred times worn up, in short, like an old rope?

The peasant farmer or yeoman of France, who in the midst of the most pleasing circumstances, never forgets his own interests, has also found it desirable for the advancement of his worldly prosperity, to establish fairs, at which he can sell his hemp and beasts, his wine and his crops; purchase clothes for his family, and coulters for his ploughs.

These fairs, which are held once in each month in all the towns of Burgundy and large villages of Le Morvan, attract a great concourse of people, and as there is much variety in the costumes, head-dresses and colours, the effect is highly picturesque. The mountaineer brings with him for sale wild boar and venison, wood and wild fruits of the forest; the inhabitant of the plain, the thousand productions of the neighbouring manufactories. Second-rate jewellers arrive with their boxes full of gold crosses and buckles, holy chaplets blessed at some favourite shrine, and silver rings.

Book-stalls are also to be seen, kept by Jesuits in disguise, the shelves of which are loaded with inferior literature, with a perfect deluge of breviaries, almanacks, abridgments of the Lives of the Saints, with “Letters fallen from Heaven,” in which, “Ladies and gentlemen,” shouts the proprietor, “you will read the details, truthful and historical, of the last miracle at Rimini; also a new and marvellous account, equally authentic, of several pictures of Christ that have shed tears of blood. Buy, ladies and gentlemen, buy the history of these astonishing miracles only a penny, ladies, for which you will have into the bargain the invaluable signature of our Holy Father the Pope, and the benediction of our Lord the Bishop.”

But ought one to be surprised at such announcements, at such a traffic, or that in these so-called enlightened days, not only auditors but purchasers should be found? that there should, in fact, be a sale for these printed mystifications, when officers of the government and officers of the armed force, attest on their honour the truth of these impudent impositions upon the credulity of mankind, affirm the accuracy and bona fide character of these winking, blinking, blasphemous, lachrymal representations?

Yes a sub-prefect, a mayor, and an officer of the gendarmerie, have signed a document stating that they had seen a picture of Christ shedding tears of blood!

When archbishops order public prayers and thanksgivings for the renewal of these pasquinades, this ridiculous mockery, can one be astonished, I say, at the state of religious ignorance and blindness of our peasantry? Such, with a few wretched prints representing Napoleon passing the Alps seated on an eagle; Poniatowsky and his white horse attempting to cross the Oder; Cambronne, with imperial moustachios, on his knees repeating the celebrated mot which he never said: “La garde meurt et ne se rend pas,” &c., such, I am grieved to confess, is the miserable intellectual food, the wretched mental and moral stock of human and religious knowledge that supplies the literary and artistic wants of the greater portion of the peasants of our departments.

At these fairs all the farm servants are engaged; those who wish to try a change of masters, or hire themselves merely for the harvest, assemble in the open space near the church, and then offer to those who require them, their brawny arms, and their farming acquirements. The most celebrated of these fairs is that held on the First of September, to which whole hamlets send all their able-bodied men and women, who hire themselves to the great proprietors for the vendange for this in Burgundy and Le Morvan is the great work, the chief event of the year; it is on the vendange that depend the commerce, the tranquillity and happiness of the country.

Monsieur B.... is ruined if the sun is obscured by clouds. Monsieur D.... who has cunningly laid his hands upon all the barrels within thirty miles round, will put a pistol to his head if he cannot sell his army of hogsheads. This one relies upon his vineyard for paying his debts another cannot marry unless he makes three hundred tierces of wine. Eight out of twelve, in short, reckon upon the produce of their vines to buy a new carriage or to be saved from prison; and the agonised mariners of the wrecked Medusa never cast their eyes with more intense anxiety towards the horizon than do these proprietors of our vineyards every morning before the vintage.

If it looks like rain no sunflower is more yellow than their countenances; if the cold is unusual every face is pale, and should a frost appear imminent, those whose affairs are the most compromised, pack up their effects and make ready for a start. But on the other hand, if the sky is serene and the wind warm, husbands are actually seen embracing their wives, and promising them any toilette they may fancy. Should the heat become Bengalic and insupportable oh! then all Burgundy is dancing and running to the vineyards, all the Morvinians fly to the hills to enjoy the cool breezes and admire the luxuriant panorama beneath and around them.

But for some months previous to the vendange, no one but a proprietor has the right to enter a vineyard; at this period a perfect calm and silence reigns, and they become an asylum, a veritable land of Goshen, an oasis for all the partridges, hares, and rabbits of the neighbourhood. In order to prevent gentlemen and professional poachers from cruising in these delightful latitudes, killing the game and injuring the vines, a number of gardes champêtres, generally old soldiers, are chosen, who armed with an old sabre, post themselves on some height which commands the vineyard, ready to lay violent hands on any delinquent that may make his appearance. But in spite of the garde champêtre, his long sabre, their interminable cut and thrust, and his eternal de par la loi, arretez! there is a sport in the early morning, called a la traulee, which is not without its charms.

The vineyards of Burgundy are for the most part divided into sections, that is to say, at from two to three hundred paces the contiguity of the vines is interrupted, and a small road, which serves during the vendange to facilitate the communication and transport of the grapes, is cut in the vineyard. At daylight, therefore, before the sun is above the horizon, or the white fog hanging in the valleys has been dispersed by his rays, and the fashionable gentleman of the town is on the point of going to bed, the sportsman, always keen and on the alert, arrives, walks slowly and carefully along the roads I have just mentioned, looking cautiously right and left, and between the intervals of the vines on either side of him.

The rabbits hopping under the leaves, the covey of partridges bathing amidst the dew, the hares gravely discussing among themselves the respective merits of the heath and wild thyme, are thus surprised in their matutinal occupations, and become the prey of the delighted sportsman. But the moment approaches when the comparative calm and protection which the poor animals enjoy will cease their days of fun and festival are numbered; their enemies up to this period have been few the rich proprietors, the privileged, but now the masses are preparing, they are cleaning up their clumsy blunderbusses, and to-morrow “the million” will take the field and assail and pop at them from every road and pathway for the mayor, after due consultation with the principal personages in the village, has sent his drummer, his Mercury, his crier, to beat a tattoo in all the public places, and crossways, and announce in front of the cabarets that the grapes being ripe the vendange is opened.

The following day, when the last star in the heavens is disappearing, when the doors of morning are scarcely opened, every road is covered with long lines of waggons drawn by oxen, and a cavalcade of horses and mules, and great asses carrying panniers may be seen galloping along in all directions. Voices, shouts, squeaking wheels, and neighing horses are also heard on every side, and parties of vendangeurs and vendangeuses, arm in arm, with baskets on their backs, and grape knives in their belts, their broad-brimmed hats encircled with ribbons and flowers, are seen marching along, singing many a Bacchanalian chorus in honour of the occasion. They are on their way to the vineyards, and like so many fauns and Bacchantes, only well draped, are with joyous hearts ready to gather in the harvest of the ruby grape.

In advance of this delighted and merry crowd, and always like the lark, the first on the wing, the sportsman is already at his post, for the first day of the vendange is, as Navarre used to say, a day of powder, the fête du fusil. And now is formed a line of sometimes three hundred vendangeurs and vendangeuses who starting at the same moment, ascend the hill-side cutting the grapes, filling and emptying their baskets. The young men strike up some jovial song in praise of wine, the girls reply; and before this soul-stirring chorus, this burst of gay and animated feeling, the game, astounded at the concert, break and retire before them. Then is the moment for the sportsman, who, concealed in a large thicket and comfortably seated at the summit of the hill, listens and laughs in his sleeve as he hears the affrighted partridge call, and the timid hare rushing through the vines towards him; they approach, are within range of his gun, and ere long the shot-bag is emptied, and the sportsman is in that rare but agreeable dilemma of not knowing what to do with his game or his gun.

In a wine country the vendange is certainly the most exciting and merriest season of the year it is a succession of delightful fêtes in the open air, of repasts amongst the vines and under the shade of the peach-trees, riding-parties in the forest, whose echoes are awakened by the melancholy notes of the horn, water-parties on the lakes, dances in the field and round the wine-press, &c.

Every chateau is full to overflowing in Le Morvan during the month of August, bands of Parisians, Picards, and Normans, acquaintances scarcely made, friends, friends’-friends, with their wives, children, dogs, nurses, and luggage arrive each hour and by every road. Every family is invaded, beds are doubled, plates are not to be found, there is only one glass for two, one knife for three; the servants, stupified and astonished, know not how to reply or which way to turn themselves; the cooks, half-roasted and lost amidst an army of sauce-pans, know not what they are doing; they put mustard into the meringues, cruets of vinegar in the soup every one is on the laugh, except however the heads of families, who rendered almost crazy by this tide of human beings always rising, by the bell of the porte cochère always ringing, pass on from one to the other the new arrivals, with a note as follows:

“Mons. de G.... presents his compliments to Mons. de V...., and has the honour to inform him that not possessing in his house one bed or one arm-chair that is not occupied, he has the pleasure of sending him two Normans and three Parisians.”

P.S. “The two Normans are first-rate waltzers, the Parisians perfect singers.” The reply will perhaps be couched in the following strain:

“Mons. de V.... presents his compliments to Mons. de G...., and has the honour to inform him that being himself under the necessity of sleeping in his cellar, he cannot, though most anxious to oblige him, receive the two Norman dancers and the three Parisian warblers.” Thus it sometimes happens that very charming, elegant, and sensitive gentlemen, who under ordinary circumstances would be very difficult to please, are obliged to sleep in a barn or loft, on a very nice bed of clean straw, with a dark lantern to light them there, and the luxury of a truss of hay for a pillow.

The peasants, generally speaking, do not witness the arrival of these visitors with much pleasure, the dandies more especially, who shod in varnished leather, always over-dressed, musked, and starched, attract, so they think, too much the attention of the young girls. Fathers, mothers, and, above all, lovers, are at once on the look out. They mistrust these fine gentlemen, whom they always designate by the appellation of “gilded serpents.”

My friends from other departments often remarked the looks of aversion with which the natives sometimes met them; and not comprehending the reason, have asked me for an explanation. Do you observe, I said, that little white house, half-hidden yonder in the poplars there, on the banks of the Cure? That house, a few years ago, was the abiding-place of a happy and honest family, a father, and his three daughters.

The father, who in his youth was in very good circumstances, was ruined by bad harvests, an epidemic disease in his cattle, and by other disasters that cause the downfall of many farmers. Nevertheless, and though his losses were great, he lived happy and even contented with his children, who, all three of irreproachable conduct and character, and excellent needlewomen, did their utmost to ameliorate his position. They made dresses for the ladies in the town, worked by the day, and sometimes, when they found their earnings during the summer months fall short of what they thought sufficient to meet the expenses of the coming winter, they hired themselves to some proprietor during the period of the vendange.

The youngest of the three, Herminie, she might be about sixteen, was a charming girl, a true child of Nature, fresh as a wild flower, awaking and rising every day of the year from her peaceful happy couch with the birds of heaven, always smiling and singing. Herminie was the joy, the favourite of the old man, she was the linnet, the darling, and the life of the house. One autumnal day, (the period at which, as I have before remarked, our province abounds with strangers,) her figure attracted the attention of one of those cursed beings, with a false heart and lying lips, that the great cities send into our rural districts, carrying with them desolation and mourning. I know not in what manner it occurred, what falsehoods, what arts he used, or what traps he laid, but he succeeded too well in his base purpose. The poor girl was deceived. Easily convinced, she was too pure, too young to doubt; and her mother, who would have been there to watch over her, was alas! sleeping in the very churchyard in which, in the shade of the evening, she first met her seducer. Enough, the heartless man of the world obtained the love of the poor and simple Herminie, and his whim, his heartless selfish whim gratified, he disappeared.

The fault, the fault of confiding woman, soon became public. Abandoned and betrayed, the poor girl sought death as a refuge in her distress, and threw herself into the river; but her father, who watched every action of his daughter, was near, and saved her. A man of unusual intelligence, and an excellent heart, his malédictions fell entirely upon the head of him who had wronged her; for his child he had only tears and consolation. Herminie became a mother; her sisters and friends were earnest and devoted in their attentions, and anticipated her every thought; but broken-hearted, she bent her head like some beautiful lily, which has at the parent root some corroding worm. Her gaiety fled, her songs ceased; pale and silent, she might be seen standing on some rock, listening to the howling of the storm, or, her little boy on her lap, seated for hours at her father’s cottage door, picking some faded rose to pieces leaf by leaf, and looking vacantly on the fragments as they lay at her feet.

But at the bottom of her cup of grief was still one more bitter drop, oh! how much more bitter than the rest! Her child, as if inheriting the melancholy of its mother, ceased to prattle, to smile; it did not thrive, it sickened; and in spite of all her care and watchings, of whole nights passed in prayers to the Virgin, to her patron Saint, and God, in spite of many an hour of repentant and sorrowing tears, it died! Bowed to the earth by this fresh, this overwhelming misfortune, Herminie complained not, but she became more pale: she was sometimes found plunged in silent but profound grief, looking towards heaven as if seeking there the little precious being the Almighty had taken from her; as if she was anxious to follow, to be at rest, united with her baby boy again.

The vendange returned once more; but the perfumed gentleman, the villain from the capital, came not again. Herminie was desirous of assisting in the labours of the season. “I am,” said she, “strong enough;” and though her sisters endeavoured to dissuade her, she persisted in accompanying them to the vineyard, but there she found her strength was unequal to the task, a smile to one, and a kind answer to another, was all that she could give, nevertheless it was remarked, during the course of the day that she spoke several times out loud, as if conversing with some invisible being. Evening arrived, and the waggons carried off their ripe and luscious loads, leaving the young men and girls racing up and down the pathways, and amongst the vines, endeavouring to smear each other’s faces with the purple fruit.

Behind these laughing groups came Herminie, the expression of her dark blue eye floating in space, and, like the flight of the swallow, resting on nothing. Onward she slowly stepped, idly pushing before her the first faded leaves of autumn, withered by the hoar frost; and, instead of the intoxicating grape, she carried in her hand a bouquet of the arbutus and the alizé, fruits without perfume, like her own heart, now without hope or love. Night came: every eye weary with toil was closed, the chimes alone telling the hours of the night vibrated on the air. Towards morning a startling cry of horror was heard from a cottage on the banks of the Cure Herminie was dead! that is to say, her face was paler than usual in her sleep; but she awoke no more! I shall ever remember that beautiful face, for I had never till then contemplated the countenance of one whose spirit had taken its way to that country from which no traveller returns.

A few days, and the withered rose-leaves which the poor girl had pulled at the cottage door were scattered by the wind; a few more, and the poor old father followed his favourite child; and his surviving daughters, half-crazed with grief and sorrow, left the neighbourhood. As to him who was the original cause of this domestic tragedy, rich, happy, perhaps a deputy and making laws himself, he lives, and is probably respected. We call ourselves a civilized people; we throw into prison a man who strikes another, and we do not punish, we do not cast from society, we do not even reproach the base hypocrite, who, with a smile on his lips, and for the infamous gratification of his bad, ungovernable, selfish passions, becomes the murderer of a whole family. Bad and rotten are the laws which permit such infamous practices. Unworthy of trust are the legislators who dream not who never think of preventing these impure and festering diseases of our social system. My friends, who had listened attentively to the sad tale, turned from me to inspect more closely the white cottage by the Cure, and no longer expressed any astonishment at the severe countenances of the peasants.

But how does it happen, will the reader say, that so delightful a province of France as that of Le Morvan should have remained for nineteen centuries unknown to England, that nation of travellers who are to be found in every corner of the globe inhabitable and uninhabitable? How is it that such a pearl, a sporting country too, should have remained buried for so long a period as it were under the dark mantle of indifference? And is it to be credited that in a district in which are to be found simultaneously wolves and health, wild boar and simplicity, the best wines in the world, and all the theological virtues, should have remained up to this day hidden lost in the deep shadows of its woods and the solitude of its mountains?

In the first place, then, I must remind you that in order to reach Le Morvan it is not necessary to traverse either the Indian Archipelago or the Cordilleras, or black or ferocious populations. Those who have by accident passed through it, have not been induced by its appearance to inscribe its name in their note-books. But Le Morvan is close at hand; Le Morvan, so to speak, touches England, a sufficient reason, as every one knows, for taking no interest in it.

Every year caravans of tourists leave for Italy and the East; they go to gaze upon the remains of what was once the palace of the famous Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra, or to kill the lizards on the steps of the mouldering Coliseum; one invites the scorpions of Greece to bite his leg; another seeks the yellow fever in the Brazils; a third prefers being robbed in Calabria, or dying of thirst in the Deserts of Lybia; the more distant and perilous the journey, the greater the pleasure of accomplishing it. Such is English taste.

Yet Le Morvan is a charming and picturesque country a lovely region, clad with verdure, flowers, and forest-trees, and watered by fresh, sparkling, and silvery streams, which every one can reach without fatigue, much expense, and without the slightest chance of danger, but perhaps, as I have before said, its proximity is its misfortune.

Should any one after perusing this volume desire to visit Le Morvan, he should be aware that to do so with any degree of pleasure or profit it is absolutely necessary to speak French fluently, for half our peasants are not in the least aware the earth is round, and that on it there are other nations besides their own. To see its thousand beauties, to fish its rivers and enter into its delightful, exciting and perilous sports, to plunge without hesitation into the depths of its forests, the traveller should also be accompanied by an experienced guide, and piloted by a friendly hand.

Le Morvan, unknown to all to-day, would come forth quickly from the shell of obscurity in which it lies concealed, if some man of rank in England, led thither by hazard or caprice, were to spend a few weeks amidst its glades and vineyards, its mountains and its streams.

What was Cannes twenty years since? who ever mentioned it in England, who knew its beauties? Nobody. Lord Brougham passes there, stops, selects a hill, crowns its top with a white chateau, scatters the gold from his purse, and sheds over the little town the lustre of the renown won by his versatile genius Cannes immediately becomes the vogue Cannes is charming, magnificent! Cannes, certainly, with her fields of jasmine and roses, her groves of orange-trees, her burning sun, blue skies and sea, and her warm pine-woods, is a delightful spot; but Cannes is also a place of languor and sloth, a lavender-water country. If you have the gout, if you are old and rich, if you have delicate lungs, go to Cannes, your life will be agreeable but enervating.

But Le Morvan is certainly not a country for a petit-maitre or a delicate lady to live in; to enjoy yourself there you must have the fire and energy of youth in your veins, a stout heart, the lungs of a mountaineer, and a sinewy frame. You must love a forester’s life, the hound and the rifle; you must be a Gordon Cumming in a small way. To the English invalid, I would recommend the ex-Chancellor’s retreat; but to him who in the full sense of the term is a sporting man, or a lover of nature, I would say: Go explore Le Morvan!