第5章

Bynightitwasclearer，andMaybolemorevisiblethanduringtheday。Cloudscoursedovertheskyingreatmasses；thefullmoonbattledtheotherway，andlitupthesnowwithgleamsofflyingsilver；thetowncamedownthehillinacascadeofbrowngables，bestriddenbysmoothwhiteroofs，andsprangledhereandtherewithlightedwindows。Ateitherendthesnowstoodhighupinthedarkness，onthepeakoftheTolboothandamongthechimneysoftheCastle。Asthemoonflashedabull’s—eyeglitteracrossthetownbetweentheracingclouds，thewhiteroofsleapedintoreliefoverthegablesandthechimney—stacks，andtheirshadowsoverthewhiteroofs。Inthetownitselfthelitfaceoftheclockpeereddownthestreet；anhourwashammeredoutonMr。Geli’sbell，andfrombehindtheredcurtainsofapublic—housesomeonetrolledout—acompatriotofBurns，again！—’Thesauttearblin’smye’e。’

Nextmorningtherewassunandaflappingwind。FromthestreetcornersofMayboleIcouldcatchbreezyglimpsesofgreenfields。

Theroadunderfootwaswetandheavy—partice，partsnow，partwater，andanyoneImetgreetedme，bywayofsalutation，with’A

finethowe’（thaw）。Mywaylayamongratherbleakbills，andpastbleakpondsanddilapidatedcastlesandmonasteries，totheHighland—

lookingvillageofKirkoswald。Ithaslittleclaimtonotice，savethatBurnscametheretostudysurveyinginthesummerof1777，andtherealso，inthekirkyard，theoriginalofTamo’Shantersleepshislastsleep。Itisworthnoticing，however，thatthiswasthefirstplaceIthought’Highland—looking。’OverthebillfromKirkoswaldafarm—roadleadstothecoast。AsIcamedownaboveTurnberry，theseaviewwasindeedstrangelydifferentfromthedaybefore。Thecoldfogswereallblownaway；andtherewasAilsaCraig，likearefraction，magnifiedanddeformed，oftheBassRock；

andtherewerethechiselledmountain—topsofArran，veinedandtippedwithsnow；andbehind，andfainter，thelow，bluelandofCantyre。CottonycloudsstoodinagreatcastleoverthetopofArran，andblewoutinlongstreamerstothesouth。Theseawasbittenalloverwithwhite；littleships，tackingupanddowntheFirth，layoveratdifferentanglesinthewind。OnShantertheywereploughinglea；acartfoal，allinafieldbyhimself，caperedandwhinniedasifthespringwereinhim。

TheroadfromTurnberrytoGirvanliesalongtheshore，amongsand—

hillsandbywildernessesoftumbledbent。Everyhereandthereafewcottagesstoodtogetherbesideabridge。Theyhadoneoddfeature，noteasytodescribeinwords：atriangularporchprojectedfromabovethedoor，supportedattheapexbyasingleuprightpost；

asecondarydoorwashingedtothepost，andcouldbehaspedoneithercheekoftherealentrance；so，whetherthewindwasnorthorsouth，thecottercouldmakehimselfatriangularbightofshelterwheretosethischairandfinishapipewithcomfort。Thereisoneobjectiontothisdevice；for，asthepoststandsinthemiddleofthefairway，anyoneprecipitatelyissuingfromthecottagemustrunhischanceofabrokenhead。SofarasIamaware，itispeculiartothelittlecornerofcountryaboutGirvan。Andthatcornerisnoticeableformorereasons：itiscertainlyoneofthemostcharacteristicdistrictsinScotland，Ithasthismovableporchbywayofarchitecture；ithas，asweshallsee，asortofremnantofprovincialcostume，andithasthehandsomestpopulationintheLowlands……

CHAPTERV—FORESTNOTES1875—6

ONTHEPLAIN

PERHAPSthereaderknowsalreadytheaspectofthegreatlevelsoftheGatinais，wheretheyborderwiththewoodedhillsofFontainebleau。Hereandthereafewgreyrockscreepoutoftheforestasiftosunthemselves。Hereandthereafewapple—treesstandtogetheronaknoll。Thequaint，undignifiedtartanofamyriadsmallfieldsdiesoutintothedistance；thestripsblendanddisappear；andthedeadflatliesforthopenandempty，withnoaccidentsaveperhapsathinlineoftreesorfaintchurchspireagainstthesky。Solemnandvastatalltimes，inspiteofpettinessintheneardetails，theimpressionbecomesmoresolemnandvasttowardsevening。Thesungoesdown，aswollenorange，asitwereintothesea。Ablue—cladpeasantrideshome，withaharrowsmokingbehindhimamongthedryclods。Anotherstillworkswithhiswifeintheirlittlestrip。Animmenseshadowfillstheplain；thesepeoplestandinituptotheirshoulders；andtheirheads，astheystoopovertheirworkandriseagain，arerelievedfromtimetotimeagainstthegoldensky。

Thesepeasantfarmersarewelloffnowadays，andnotbyanymeansoverworked；butsomehowyoualwaysseeinthemthehistoricalrepresentativeoftheserfofyore，andthinknotsomuchofpresenttimes，whichmaybeprosperousenough，asoftheolddayswhenthepeasantwastaxedbeyondpossibilityofpayment，andlived，inMichelet’simage，likeaharebetweentwofurrows。Theseverypeoplenowweedingtheirpatchunderthebroadsunset，thatverymanandhiswife，itseemstous，havesufferedallthewrongsofFrance。Itistheywhohavebeentheircountry’sscapegoatforlongages；theywho，generationaftergeneration，havesowedandnotreaped，reapedandanotherhasgarnered；andwhohavenowenteredintotheirreward，andenjoytheirgoodthingsintheirturn。ForthedaysaregonebywhentheSeigneurruledandprofited。’LeSeigneur，’saystheoldformula，’enfermesesmanantscommesousporteetgonds，ducielalaterre。Toutestalui，foretchenue，oiseaudansl’air，poissondansl’eau，beteanbuisson，l’ondequicoule，laclochedontlesonauloinroule。’Suchwashisoldstateofsovereignty，alocalgodratherthanamereking。Andnowyoumayaskyourselfwhereheis，andlookroundforvestigesofmylatelord，andinallthecountry—

sidethereisnotraceofhimbuthisforlornandfallenmansion。Attheendofalongavenue，nowsownwithgrain，inthemidstofaclosefullofcypressesandlilacs，ducksandcrowingchanticleersanddroningbees，theoldchateauliftsitsredchimneysandpeakedroofsandturningvanesintothewindandsun。Thereisagladspringbustleintheair，perhaps，andthelilacsareallinflower，andthecreepersgreenaboutthebrokenbalustrade：butnospringshallrevivethehonouroftheplace。Oldwomenofthepeople，little，childrenofthepeople，saunterandgambolinthewalledcourtorfeedtheducksintheneglectedmoat。Plough—horses，mightyoflimb，browseinthelongstables。Thedial—handontheclockwaitsforsomebetterhour。Outontheplain，wherehotsweattricklesintomen’seyes，andthespadegoesindeepandcomesupslowly，perhapsthepeasantmayfeelamovementofjoyathisheartwhenhethinksthatthesespaciouschimneysarenowcold，whichhavesooftenblazedandflickeredupongayfolkatsupper，whileheandhishollow—eyedchildrenwatchedthroughthenightwithemptybelliesandcoldfeet。Andperhaps，asheraiseshisheadandseestheforestlyinglikeacoast—lineoflowhillsalongthesea—leveloftheplain，perhapsforestandchateauholdnounsimilarplaceinhisaffections。

Ifthechateauwasmylord’s，theforestwasmylordtheking’s；

neitherofthemforthispoorJacques。Ifhethoughttoekeouthismeagrewayoflifebysomepettytheftofwoodforthefire，orforanewroof—tree，hefoundhimselffacetofacewithawholedepartment，fromtheGrandMasteroftheWoodsandWaters，whowasahigh—bornlord，downtothecommonsergeant，whowasapeasantlikehimself，andworestripesorabandoleerbywayofuniform。Forthefirstoffence，bytheSaliclaw，therewasafineoffifteensols；andshouldamanbetakenmorethanonceinfault，orcircumstancesaggravatethecolourofhisguilt，hemightbewhipped，branded，orhanged。TherewasahangmanoveratMelun，and，Idoubtnot，afinetallgibbethardbythetowngate，whereJacquesmightseehisfellowsdangleagainsttheskyashewenttomarket。

Andthen，ifhelivedneartoacover，therewouldbethemoreharesandrabbitstoeatouthisharvest，andthemorehunterstotrampleitdown。MylordhasanewhornfromEngland。Hehaslaidoutsevenfrancsindecoratingitwithsilverandgold，andfittingitwithasilkenleashtohangabouthisshoulder。ThehoundshavebeenonapilgrimagetotheshrineofSaintMesmer，orSaintHubertintheArdennes，orsomeotherholyintercessorwhohasmadeaspecialityofthehealthofhunting—dogs。Inthegreydawnthegamewasturnedandthebranchbrokenbyourbestpiqueur。Arareday’shuntingliesbeforeus。Windajollyflourish，soundtheBIEN—ALLERwithallyourlungs。Jacquesmuststandby，hatinhand，whilethequarryandhoundandhuntsmansweepacrosshisfield，andayear’ssparingandlabouringisasthoughithadnotbeen。Ifhecanseetheruinwithagoodenoughgrace，whoknowsbuthemayfallinfavourwithmylord；whoknowsbuthissonmaybecomethelastandleastamongtheservantsathislordship’skennel—oneofthetwopoorvarletswhogetnowagesandsleepatnightamongthehounds？

Forallthat，theforesthasbeenofusetoJacques，notonlywarminghimwithfallenwood，butgivinghimshelterindaysofsoretrouble，whenmylordofthechateau，withallhistroopersandtrumpets，hadbeenbeatenfromfieldafterfieldintosomeultimatefastness，orlayover—seasinanEnglishprison。Inthesedarkdays，whenthewatchonthechurchsteeplesawthesmokeofburningvillagesonthesky—line，oraclumpofspearsandflutteringpensionsdrawingnighacrosstheplain，thesegoodfolkgatthemup，withalltheirhouseholdgods，intothewood，whence，fromsomehighspur，theirtimidscoutsmightoverlookthecomingandgoingofthemarauders，andseetheharvestriddendown，andchurchandcottagegouptoheavenallnightinflame。Itwasbutanunhomelyrefugethatthewoodsafforded，wheretheymustabideallchangeofweatherandkeephousewithwolvesandvipers。Oftentherewasnoneleftalive，whentheyreturned，toshowtheolddivisionsoffieldfromfield。Andyet，astimeswent，whenthewolvesenteredatnightintodepopulatedParis，andperhapsDeRetzwaspassingbywithacompanyofdemonslikehimself，eveninthesecavesandthicketsthereweregladheartsandgratefulprayers。

Onceortwice，asIsay，inthecourseoftheages，theforestmayhaveservedthepeasantwell，butatheartitisaroyalforest，andnoblebyoldassociations。ThesewoodshaverungtothehornsofallthekingsofFrance，fromPhilipAugustusdownwards。TheyhaveseenSaintLouisexercisethedogshebroughtwithhimfromEgypt；FrancisI。goa—huntingwithtenthousandhorsesinhistrain；andPeterofRussiafollowinghisfirststag。Andsotheyarestillhauntedfortheimaginationbyroyalhuntsandprogresses，andpeopledwiththefacesofmemorablemenofyore。Andthisdistinctionisnotonlyinvirtueofthepastimeofdeadmonarchs。

Greatevents，greatrevolutions，greatcyclesintheaffairsofmen，haveherelefttheirnote，heretakenshapeinsomesignificantanddramaticsituation。ItwashencethatGruiseandhisleaguersledCharlestheNinthaprisonertoParis。Here，bootedandspurred，andwithallhisdogsabouthim，NapoleonmetthePopebesideawoodlandcross。Here，onhiswaytoElbanotsolongafter，hekissedtheeagleoftheOldGuard，andspokewordsofpassionatefarewelltohissoldiers。Andhere，afterWaterloo，ratherthanyielditsensigntothenewpower，oneofhisfaithfulregimentsburnedthatmemorialofsomuchtoilandgloryontheGrandMaster’stable，anddrankitsdustinbrandy，asadevoutpriestconsumestheremnantsoftheHost。

INTHESEASON

Closeintotheedgeoftheforest，soclosethatthetreesoftheBORNAGEstandpleasantlyaboutthelasthouses，sitsacertainsmallandveryquietvillage。Thereisbutonestreet，andthat，notlongago，wasagreenlane，wherethecattlebrowsedbetweenthedoorsteps。Asyougoupthisstreet，drawingevernearerthebeginningofthewood，youwillarriveatlastbeforeaninnwhereartistslodge。Tothedoor（forIimagineittobesixo’clockonsomefinesummer’seven），halfadozen，ormaybehalfascore，ofpeoplehavebroughtoutchairs，andnowsitsunningthemselves，andwaitingtheomnibusfromMelun。Ifyougoonintothecourtyouwillfindasmanymore，someinbilliard—roomoverabsintheandamatchofcorkssomewithoutoveralastcigarandavermouth。Thedovescooandflutterfromthedovecot；Hortenseisdrawingwaterfromthewell；andasalltheroomsopenintothecourt，youcanseethewhite—cappedcookoverthefurnaceinthekitchen，andsomeidlepainter，whohasstoredhiscanvasesandwashedhisbrushes，janglingawaltzonthecrazy，tongue—tiedpianointhesalle—a—manger。

’EDMOND，ENCOREUNVERMOUTH，’criesamaninvelveteen，addinginatoneofapologeticafterthought，’UNDOUBLE，S’ILVOUSPLAIT。’

’Whereareyouworking？’asksoneinpurewhitelinenfromtoptotoe。’AttheCarrefourdel’Epine，’returnstheotherincorduroy（theyareallgaitered，bytheway）。’Icouldn’tdoathingtoit。

Iranoutofwhite。Wherewereyou？’’Iwasn’tworking。Iwaslookingformotives。’Hereisanoutbreakofjubilation，andalotofmenclusteringtogetheraboutsomenew—comerwithoutstretchedhands；perhapsthe’correspondence’hascomeinandbroughtSo—and—sofromParis，orperhapsitisonlySo—and—sowhohaswalkedoverfromChaillytodinner。

’ATABLE，MESSIEURS！’criesM。Siron，bearingthroughthecourtthefirsttureenofsoup。Andimmediatelythecompanybeginstosettledownaboutthelongtablesinthedining—room，framedallroundwithsketchesofalldegreesofmeritanddemerit。There’sthebigpictureofthehuntsmanwindingahornwithadeadboarbetweenhislegs，andhislegs—well，hislegsinstockings。Andhereisthelittlepictureofarawmutton—chop，inwhichSuch—a—oneknockedaholelastsummerwithnoworseamissilethanaplumfromthedessert。Andunderalltheseworksofartsomucheatinggoesforward，somuchdrinking，somuchjabberinginFrenchandEnglish，thatitwoulddoyourheartgoodmerelytopeepandlistenatthedoor。OnemanistellinghowtheyallwentlastyeartothefeteatFleury，andanotherhowwellso—and—sowouldsingofanevening：andhereareathirdandfourthmakingplansforthewholefutureoftheirlives；andthereisafifthimitatingaconjurerandmakingfacesonhisclenchedfist，surelyofallartsthemostdifficultandadmirable！Asixthhaseatenhisfill，lightsacigarette，andresignshimselftodigestion。Aseventhhasjustdroppedin，andcallsforsoup。Numbereight，meanwhile，hasleftthetable，andisoncemoretramplingthepoorpianounderpowerfulanduncertainfingers。

Dinnerover，peopledropoutsidetosmokeandchat。Perhapswegoalongtovisitourfriendsattheotherendofthevillage，wherethereisalwaysagoodwelcomeandagoodtalk，andperhapssomepickledoystersandwhitewinetoclosetheevening。Oradanceisorganisedinthedining—room，andthepianoexhibitsallitspacesundermanfuljockeying，tothelightofthreeorfourcandlesandalamportwo，whilethewaltzersmovetoandfrouponthewoodenfloor，andsobermen，whoarenotgiventosuchlightpleasures，getuponthetableorthesideboard，andsittherelookingonapprovinglyoverapipeandatumblerofwine。Orsometimes—

supposemyladymoonlooksforth，andthecourtfromoutthehalf—litdining—roomseemsnearlyasbrightasbyday，andthelightpicksoutthewindow—panes，andmakesaclearshadowundereveryvine—leafonthewall—sometimesapicnicisproposed，andabasketmadeready，andagoodprocessionformedinfrontofthehotel。Thetwotrumpetersinhonourgobefore；andaswefiledownthelongalley，andupthroughdeviousfootpathsamongrocksandpine—trees，witheveryhereandthereadarkpassageofshadow，andeveryhereandthereaspaciousoutlookovermoonlitwoods，thesetwoprecedeusandsoundmanyajollyflourishastheywalk。Wegatherfernsanddryboughsintothecavern，andsoonagoodblazeflutterstheshadowsoftheoldbandits’haunt，andshowsshapelybeardsandcomelyfacesandtoilettesrangedaboutthewall。Thebowlislit，andthepunchisburntandsentroundinscaldingthimblefuls。Soagoodhourortwomaypasswithsongandjest。Andthenwegohomeinthemoonlitmorning，stragglingagooddealamongthebirchtuftsandtheboulders，butevercalledtogetheragain，asoneofourleaderswindshishorn。Perhapssomeoneofthepartywillnotheedthesummons，butchoosesoutsomeby—wayofhisown。Ashefollowsthewindingsandyroad，hehearstheflourishesgrowfainterandfainterinthedistance，anddiefinallyout，andstillwalksoninthestrangecoolnessandsilenceandbetweenthecrisplightsandshadowsofthemoonlitwoods，untilsuddenlythebellringsoutthehourfromfar—

awayChailly，andhestartstofindhimselfalone。Nosurf—bellonforlornandperilousshores，nopassingknelloverthebusymarket—

place，canspeakwithamoreheavyanddisconsolatetonguetohumanears。Eachstrokecallsupahostofghostlyreverberationsinhismind。Andashestandsrooted，ithasgrownoncemoresoutterlysilentthatitseemstohimhemighthearthechurchbellsringthehouroutalltheworldover，notatChaillyonly，butinParis，andawayinoutlandishcities，andinthevillageontheriver，wherehischildhoodpassedbetweenthesunandflowers。

IDLEHOURS

Thewoodsbynight，inalltheiruncannyeffect，arenotrightlytobeunderstooduntilyoucancomparethemwiththewoodsbyday。Thestillnessofthemedium，thefloorofglitteringsand，thesetreesthatgostreaminguplikemonstroussea—weedsandwaverinthemovingwindsliketheweedsinsubmarinecurrents，allthesesetthemindworkingonthethoughtofwhatyoumayhaveseenoffaforelandoroverthesideofaboat，andmakeyoufeellikeadiver，downinthequietwater，fathomsbelowthetumbling，transitorysurfaceofthesea。Andyetinitself，asIsay，thestrangenessofthesenocturnalsolitudesisnottobefeltfullywithoutthesenseofcontrast。Youmusthaveriseninthemorningandseenthewoodsastheyarebyday，kindledandcolouredinthesun’slight；youmusthavefelttheodourofinnumerabletreesateven，theunsparingheatalongtheforestroads，andthecoolnessofthegroves。

Andonthefirstmorningyouwilldoubtlessrisebetimes。Ifyouhavenotbeenwakenedbeforebythevisitofsomeadventurouspigeon，youwillbewakenedassoonasthesuncanreachyourwindow—fortherearenoblindorshutterstokeephimout—andtheroom，withitsbarewoodfloorandbarewhitewashedwalls，shinesallroundyouinasortofgloryofreflectedlights。Youmaydozeawhilelongerbysnatches，orlieawaketostudythecharcoalmenanddogsandhorseswithwhichformeroccupantshavedefiledthepartitions：

Thiers，withwilyprofile；localcelebrities，pipeinhand；or，maybe，aromanticlandscapesplashedinoil。Meanwhileartistafterartistdropsintothesalle—a—mangerforcoffee，andthenshoulderseasel，sunshade，stool，andpaint—box，boundintoafagot，andsetsofforwhathecallshis’motive。’Andartistafterartist，ashegoesoutofthevillage，carrieswithhimalittlefollowingofdogs。

Forthedogs，whobelongonlynominallytoanyspecialmaster，hangaboutthegateoftheforestalldaylong，andwheneveranyonegoesbywhohitstheirfancy，profitbyhisescort，andgoforthwithhimtoplayanhourortwoathunting。Theywouldliketobeunderthetreesallday。Buttheycannotgoalone。Theyrequireapretext。

Andsotheytakethepassingartistasanexcusetogointothewoods，astheymighttakeawalking—stickasanexcusetobathe。

Withquickears，longspines，andbandylegs，orperhapsastallasagreyhoundandwithabulldog’shead，thiscompanyofmongrelswilltrotbyyoursidealldayandcomehomewithyouatnight，stillshowingwhiteteethandwaggingstuntedtail。Theirgoodhumourisnottobeexhausted。Youmaypeltthemwithstonesifyouplease，andalltheywilldoistogiveyouawiderberth。Ifoncetheycomeoutwithyou，toyoutheywillremainfaithful，andwithyoureturn；

althoughifyoumeetthemnextmorninginthestreet，itisaslikeasnottheywillcutyouwithacountenanceofbrass。

Theforest—astrangethingforanEnglishman—isverydestituteofbirds。Thisisnocountrywhereeverypatchofwoodamongthemeadowsgibesupanincreaseofsong，andeveryvalleywanderedthroughbyastreamletringsandreverberatesfromsidetowithaprofusionofclearnotes。Andthisrarityofbirdsisnottoberegrettedonitsownaccountonly。Fortheinsectsprosperintheirabsence，andbecomeasoneoftheplaguesofEgypt。Antsswarminthehotsand；mosquitosdronetheirnasaldrone；whereverthesunfindsaholeintheroofoftheforest，youseeamyriadtransparentcreaturescomingandgoingintheshaftoflight；andevenbetween—

whiles，evenwherethereisnoincursionofsun—raysintothedarkarcadeofthewood，youareconsciousofacontinualdriftofinsects，anebbandflowofinfinitesimallivingthingsbetweenthetrees。Norareinsectstheonlyevilcreaturesthathaunttheforest。Foryoumayplumpintoacaveamongtherocks，andfindyourselffacetofacewithawildboar，orseeacrookedviperslitheracrosstheroad。

Perhapsyoumaysetyourselfdowninthebaybetweentwospreadingbeech—rootswithabookonyourlap，andbeawakenedallofasuddenbyafriend：’Isay，justkeepwhereyouare，willyou？Youmakethejolliestmotive。’Andyoureply：’Well，Idon’tmind，ifImaysmoke。’Andthereafterthehoursgoidlyby。Yourfriendattheeasellaboursdoggedlyalittlewayoff，inthewideshadowofthetree；andyetfarther，acrossastraitofglaringsunshine，youseeanotherpainter，encampedintheshadowofanothertree，anduptohiswaistinthefern。Youcannotwatchyourowneffigygrowingoutofthewhitetrunk，andthetrunkbeginningtostandforthfromtherestofthewood，andthewholepicturegettingdappledoverwiththeflecksofsunthatslipthroughtheleavesoverhead，and，asawindgoesbyandsetsthetreesa—talking，flickerhitherandthitherlikebutterfliesoflight。Butyouknowitisgoingforward；and，outofemulationwiththepainter，getreadyyourownpalette，andlayoutthecolourforawoodlandsceneinwords。

Yourtreestandsinahollowpavedwithfernandheather，setinabasinoflowhills，andscatteredoverwithrocksandjunipers。Alltheopenissteepedinpitilesssunlight。Everythingstandsoutasthoughitwerecutincardboard，everycolourisstrainedintoitshighestkey。Thebouldersaresomeofthemuprightanddeadlikemonolithiccastles，someofthempronelikesleepingcattle。Thejunipers—looking，intheirsoiledandraggedmourning，likesomefuneralprocessionthathasgoneseekingtheplaceofsepulchrethreehundredyearsandmoreinwindandrain—aredaubedinforciblyagainsttheglowingfernsandheather。Everytasseloftheirrustyfoliageisdefinedwithpre—Raphaeliteminuteness。Andasorryfiguretheymakeoutthereinthesun，likemisbegottenyew—trees！

Thesceneisallpitchedinakeyofcoloursopeculiar，andlitupwithsuchadischargeofviolentsunlight，asamanmightlivefiftyyearsinEnglandandnotsee。

Meanwhileatyourelbowsomeonetunesupasong，wordsofRonsardtoapathetictremulousair，ofhowthepoetlovedhismistresslongago，andpressedonhertheflightoftime，andtoldherhowwhiteandquietthedeadlayunderthestones，andhowtheboatdippedandpitchedastheshadesembarkedforthepassionlessland。Yetalittlewhile，sangthepoet，andthereshallbenomorelove；onlytositandrememberlovesthatmighthavebeen。Thereisafallingflourishintheairthatremainsinthememoryandcomesbackinincongruousplaces，ontheseatofhansomsorinthewarmbedatnight，withsomethingofaforestsavour。

’Youcangetupnow，’saysthepainter；’I’matthebackground。’

Andsoupyouget，stretchingyourself，andgoyourwayintothewood，thedaylightbecomingricherandmoregolden，andtheshadowsstretchingfartherintotheopen。Acoolaircomesalongthehighways，andthescentsawaken。Thefir—treesbreatheabroadtheirozone。Outofunknownthicketscomesforththesoft，secret，aromaticodourofthewoods，notlikeasmellofthefreeheaven，butasthoughcourtladies，whohadknownthesepathsinageslonggoneby，stillwalkedinthesummerevenings，andshedfromtheirbrocadesabreathofmuskorbergamotuponthewoodlandwinds。Onesideofthelongavenuesisstillkindledwiththesun，theotherisplungedintransparentshadow。Overthetreesthewestbeginstoburnlikeafurnace；andthepaintersgatheruptheirchattels，andgodown，byavenueorfootpath，totheplain。

APLEASURE—PARTY

Asthisexcursionisamatterofsomelength，and，moreover，wegoinforce，wehavesetasideourusualvehicle，thepony—cart，andorderedalargewagonettefromLejosne’s。Ithasbeenwaitingfornearanhour，whileonewenttopackaknapsack，andt’otherhurriedoverhistoiletteandcoffee；butnowitisfilledfromendtoendwithmerryfolkinsummerattire，thecoachmancrackshiswhip，andamidmuchapplausefromroundtheinndooroffwerattleataspankingtrot。Thewayliesthroughtheforest，uphillanddowndale，andbybeechandpinewood，inthecheerfulmorningsunshine。

TheEnglishgetdownatalltheascentsandwalkonaheadforexercise；theFrencharemightilyentertainedatthis，andkeepcoylyunderneaththetilt。Aswegowecarrywithusapleasantnoiseoflaughterandlightspeech，andsomeonewillbealwaysbreakingoutintoabarortwoofoperabouffe。BeforewegettotheRouteRondeherecomesDesprez，thecolourmanfromFontainebleau，trudgingacrossonhisweeklypeddlewithacaseofmerchandise；anditis’Desprez，leavemesomemalachitegreen’；’Desprez，leavemesomuchcanvas’；

’Desprez，leavemethis，orleavemethat’；M。Desprezstandingthewhileinthesunlightwithgravefaceandmanysalutations。Thenextinterruptionismoreimportant。Forsometimebackwehavehadthesoundofcannoninourears；andnow，alittlepastFranchard，wefindamountedtrooperholdingaledhorse，whobringsthewagonettetoastand。TheartilleryispractisingintheQuadrilateral，itappears；passagealongtheRouteRondeformallyinterdictedforthemoment。Thereisnothingforitbuttodrawupattheglaringcross—

roadsandgetdowntomakefunwiththenotoriousCocardon，themostungainlyandill—breddogofalltheungainlyandill—breddogsofBarbizon，orclamberaboutthesandybanks。Andmeanwhilethedoctor，withsunumbrella，widePanama，andpatriarchalbeard，isbusywheedlingand（foraughttherestofusknow）bribingthetoofacilesentry。Hisspeechissmoothanddulcet，hismannerdignifiedandinsinuating。ItisnotfornothingthattheDoctorhasvoyagedalltheworldover，andspeaksalllanguagesfromFrenchtoPatagonian。Hehasnotcomebornefromperilousjourneystobethwartedbyacorporalofhorse。Andsowesoonseethesoldier’smouthrelax，andhisshouldersimitatearelentingheart。’EN

VOITURE，MESSIEURS，MESDAMES，’singstheDoctor；andonwegoagainatagoodroundpace，forblackcarefollowshardafterus，anddiscretionprevailsnotalittleovervalourinsometimorousspiritsoftheparty。Atanymomentwemaymeetthesergeant，whowillsendusback。Atanymomentwemayencounteraflyingshell，whichwillsendussomewherefartheroffthanGrez。

Grez—forthatisourdestination—hasbeenhighlyrecommendedforitsbeauty。’ILYADEL’EAU，’peoplehavesaid，withanemphasis，asifthatsettledthequestion，which，foraFrenchmind，Iamratherledtothinkitdoes。AndGrez，whenwegetthere，isindeedaplaceworthyofsomepraise。Itliesoutoftheforest，aclusterofhouses，withanoldbridge，anoldcastleinruin，andaquaintoldchurch。Theinngardendescendsinterracestotheriver；

stable—yard，kailyard，orchard，andaspaceoflawn，fringedwithrushesandembellishedwithagreenarbour。OntheoppositebankthereisareachofEnglish—lookingplain，setthicklywithwillowsandpoplars。Andbetweenthetwoliestheriver，clearanddeep，andfullofreedsandfloatinglilies。Water—plantsclusteraboutthestarlingsofthelonglowbridge，andstandhalf—wayupuponthepiersingreenluxuriance。Theycatchthedippedoarwithlongantennae，andchequertheslimybottomwiththeshadowoftheirleaves。Andtheriverwandersandthitherhitheramongtheislets，andissmotheredandbrokenupbythereeds，likeanoldbuildinginthelithe，hardyarmsoftheclimbingivy。Youmaywatchtheboxwherethegoodmanoftheinnkeepsfishaliveforhiskitchen，oneoilyripplefollowinganotheroverthetopoftheyellowdeal。Andyoucanhearasplashingandaprattleofvoicesfromtheshedundertheoldkirk，wherethevillagewomenwashandwashalldayamongthefishandwater—lilies。Itseemsasiflinenwashedthereshouldbespeciallycoolandsweet。

Wehavecomeherefortheriver。Andnosoonerhaveweallbathedthanweboardthetwoshallopsandpushoffgaily，andgoglidingunderthetreesandgatheringagreattreasureofwater—lilies。Someonesings；sometrailtheirhandsinthecoolwater；someleanoverthegunwaletoseetheimageofthetallpoplarsfarbelow，andtheshadowoftheboat，withthebalancedoarsandtheirownheadprotruded，glidesmoothlyovertheyellowfloorofthestream。Atlast，thedaydeclining—allsilentandhappy，anduptothekneesinthewetlilies—wepuntslowlybackagaintothelanding—placebesidethebridge。Thereisawishforsolitudeonall。Onehideshimselfinthearbourwithacigarette；anothergoesawalkinthecountrywithCocardon；athirdinspectsthechurch。Anditisnottilldinnerisonthetable，andtheinn’sbestwinegoesroundfromglasstoglass，thatwebegintothrowofftherestraintandfuseoncemoreintoajollyfellowship。

Halfthepartyaretoreturnto—nightwiththewagonette；andsomeoftheothers，loathtobreakupcompany，willgowiththemabitofthewayanddrinkastirrup—cupatMarlotte。Itisdarkinthewagonette，andnotsomerryasitmighthavebeen。Thecoachmanlosestheroad。So—and—sotriestolightfireworkswiththemostindifferentsuccess。Somesing，buttherestaretoowearytoapplaud；anditseemsasifthefestivalwerefairlyatanend—

’Nousavonsfaitlanoce，Rentronsanosfoyers！’

Andsuchistheburthen，evenafterwehavecometoMarlotteandtakenourplacesinthecourtatMotherAntonine’s。Thereispunchonthelongtableoutintheopenair，wheretheguestsdineinsummerweather。Thecandlesflareinthenightwind，andthefacesroundthepuncharelitup，withshiftingemphasis，againstabackgroundofcompleteandsoliddarkness。Itisallpicturesqueenough；butthefactis，weareaweary。Weyawn；weareoutofthevein；wehavemadethewedding，asthesongsays，andnow，forpleasure’ssake，let’smakeanendon’t。Whenherecomesstridingintothecourt，bootedtomid—thigh，spurredandsplashed，inajacketofgreencord，thegreat，famous，andredoubtableBlank；andinamomentthefirekindlesagain，andthenightiswitnessofourlaughterasheimitatesSpaniards，Germans，Englishmen，picture—

dealers，alleccentricwaysofspeakingandthinking，withapossession，afury，astrainofmindandvoice，thatwouldrathersuggestanervouscrisisthanadesiretoplease。Weareasmerryaseverwhenthetrapsetsforthagain，andsayfarewellnoisilytoallthegoodfolkgoingfarther。Then，aswearefarenoughfromthoughtsofsleep，wevisitBlankinhisquainthouse，andsitanhourorsoinagreattapestriedchamber，laidwithfurs，litteredwithsleepinghounds，andlitup，infantasticshadowandshine，byawoodfireinamediaevalchimney。Andthenweplodbackthroughthedarknesstotheinnbesidetheriver。

Howquickbrightthingscometoconfusion！Whenwearisenextmorning，thegreyshowersfallsteadily，thetreeshanglimp，andthefaceofthestreamisspoiledwithdimplingraindrops。Yesterday’sliliesencumberthegardenwalk，orbegin，dismallyenough，theirvoyagetowardstheSeineandthesaltsea。Asicklyshimmerliesuponthedrippinghouse—roofs，andallthecolouriswashedoutofthegreenandgoldenlandscapeoflastnight，asthoughanenviousmanhadtakenawater—coloursketchandblottedittogetherwithasponge。Wegoouta—walkinginthewetroads。ButtheroadsaboutGrezhaveatrickoftheirown。Theygoonforawhileamongclumpsofwillowsandpatchesofvine，andthen，suddenlyandwithoutanywarning，ceaseanddetermineinsomemiryholloworuponsomebaldknowe；andyouhaveashortperiodofhope，thenright—aboutface，andbackthewayyoucame！Sowedrawaboutthekitchenfireandplayaroundgameofcardsforha’pence，orgotothebilliard—room，foramatchatcorksandbyoneconsentamessengerissentoverforthewagonette—Grezshallbeleftto—morrow。

To—morrowdawnssofairthattwoofthepartyagreetowalkbackforexercise，andlettheirkidnap—sacksfollowbythetrap。IneedhardlysaytheyareneitherofthemFrench；for，ofallEnglishphrases，thephrase’forexercise’istheleastcomprehensibleacrosstheStraitsofDover。Allgoeswellforawhilewiththepedestrians。Thewetwoodsarefullofscentsinthenoontide。Atacertaincross，wherethereisaguardhouse，theymakeahalt，fortheforester’swifeisthedaughteroftheirgoodhostatBarbizon。Andsotheretheyarehospitablyreceivedbythecomelywoman，withonechildinherarmsandanotherprattlingandtotteringathergown，anddrinksomesyrupofquinceinthebackparlour，withamapoftheforestonthewall，andsomeprintsoflove—affairsandthegreatNapoleonhunting。AstheydrawneartheQuadrilateral，andhearoncemorethereportofthebigguns，theytakeaby—roadtoavoidthesentries，andgoonawhilesomewhatvaguely，withthesoundofthecannonintheirearsandtherainbeginningtofall。Thewaysgrowwiderandsandier；hereandtheretherearerealsand—hills，asthoughbythesea—shore；thefir—woodisopenandgrowsinclumpsuponthehillocks，andtheraceofsign—postsisnomore。Onebeginstolookattheotherdoubtfully。’Iamsureweshouldkeepmoretotheright，’saysone；andtheotherisjustascertaintheyshouldholdtotheleft。Andnow，suddenly，theheavensopen，andtherainfalls’sheerandstrongandloud，’asoutofashower—bath。Inamomenttheyareaswetasshipwreckedsailors。Theycannotseeoutoftheireyesforthedrift，andthewaterchurnsandgurglesintheirboots。Theyleavethetrackandtryacrosscountrywithagambler’sdesperatin，foritseemsasifitwereimpossibletomakethesituationworse；and，forthenexthour，goscramblingfrombouldertoboulder，orplodalongpathsthatarenownomorethanrivulets，andacrosswasteclearingswherethescatteredshellsandbrokenfir—treestellalltooplainlyofthecannoninthedistance。

Andmeantimethecannongrumbleoutresponsestothegrumblingthunder。Thereissuchamixtureofmelodramaandsheerdiscomfortaboutallthis，itisatoncesogreyandsolurid，thatitisfarmoreagreeabletoreadandwriteaboutbythechimney—cornerthantosufferintheperson。Atlasttheychanceontherightpath，andmakeFranchardintheearlyevening，thesorriestpairofwanderersthateverwelcomedEnglishale。Thence，bytheBoisd’Hyver，theVentes—Alexandre，andthePinsBrules，tothecleanhostelry，dryclothes，anddinner。

THEWOODSINSPRING

Ithinkyouwillliketheforestbestinthesharpearlyspringtime，whenitisjustbeginningtoreawaken，andinnumerablevioletspeepfromamongthefallenleaves；whentwoorthreepeopleatmostsitdowntodinner，and，attable，youwilldowelltokeeparugaboutyourknees，forthenightsarechill，andthesalle—a—mangeropensonthecourt。Thereislesstodistracttheattention，foronething，andtheforestismoreitself。Itisnotbedottedwithartists’

sunshadesaswithunknownmushrooms，norbestrewnwiththeremainsofEnglishpicnics。Thehuntingstillgoeson，andatanymomentyourheartmaybebroughtintoyourmouthasyouhearfar—awayhorns；oryoumaybetoldbyanagitatedpeasantthattheVicomtehasgoneuptheavenue，nottenminutessince，’AFONDDETRAIN，MONSIEUR，ET

AVECDOUZEPIPUERS。’

Ifyougouptosomecoignofvantageinthesystemoflowhillsthatpermeatestheforest，youwillseemanydifferenttractsofcountry，eachofitsowncoldandmelancholyneutraltint，andallmixedtogetherandmingledtheoneintotheotherattheseams。Youwillseetractsofleaflessbeechesofafaintyellowishgrey，andleaflessoaksalittleruddierinthehue。Thenzonesofpineofasolemngreen；and，dottedamongthepines，orstandingbythemselvesinrockyclearings，thedelicate，snow—whitetrunksofbirches，spreadingoutintosnow—whitebranchesyetmoredelicate，andcrownedandcanopiedwithapurplehazeoftwigs。Andthenalong，bareridgeoftumbledboulders，withbrightsand—breaksbetweenthem，andwaveringsandyroadsamongthebrackenandbrownheather。Itisallrathercoldandunhomely。Ithasnottheperfectbeauty，northegem—likecolouring，ofthewoodinthelateryear，whenitisnomorethanonevastcolonnadeofverdantshadow，tremulouswithinsects，intersectedhereandtherebylanesofsunlightsetinpurpleheather。ThelovelinessofthewoodsinMarchisnot，assuredly，ofthisblowzyrustictype。Itismadesharpwithagrainofsalt，withatouchofugliness。Ithasastinglikethestingofbitterale；

youacquiretheloveofitasmenacquireatasteforolives。Andthewonderfulclear，pureairwellsintoyourlungsthewhilebyvoluptuousinhalations，andmakestheeyesbright，andsetsthehearttinklingtoanewtune—or，rather，toanoldtune；foryourememberinyourboyhoodsomethingakintothisspiritofadventure，thisthirstforexploration，thatnowtakesyoumasterfullybythehand，plungesyouintomanyadeepgrove，anddragsyouovermanyastonycrest。itisasifthewholewoodwerefulloffriendlyvoice，callingyoufartherin，andyouturnfromonesidetoanother，likeBuridan’sdonkey，inamazeofpleasure。

Comelybeechessenduptheirwhite，straight，clusteredbranches，barredwithgreenmoss，likesomanyfingersfromahalf—clenchedhand。Mightyoaksstandtotheanklesinafinetraceryofunderwood；thencethetallshaftclimbsupwards，andthegreatforestofstalwartboughsspreadsoutintothegoldeneveningsky，wheretherooksareflyingandcalling。OntheswardoftheBoisd’Hyverthefirsstandwellasunderwithoutspreadarms，likefencerssaluting；

andtheairsmellsofresinallaround，andthesoundoftheaxeisrarelystill。Butstrangestofall，andinappearanceoldestofall，arethedimandwizarduplanddistrictsofyoungwood。Thegroundiscarpetedwithfir—tassel，andstrewnwithfir—applesandflakesoffallenbark。Rocksliecrouchinginthethicket，gutteredwithrain，tuftedwithlichen，whitewithyearsandtherigoursofthechangefulseasons。Brownandyellowbutterfliesaresownandcarriedawayagainbythelightair—likethistledown。Thelonelinessofthesecovertsissoexcessive，thattherearemomentswhenpleasuredrawstothevergeoffear。Youlistenandlistenforsomenoisetobreakthesilence，tillyougrowhalfmesmerisedbytheintensityofthestrain；yoursenseofyourownidentityistroubled；yourbrainreels，likethatofsomegymnosophistporingonhisownnoseinAsiaticjungles；andshouldyouseeyourownoutspreadfeet，youseethem，notasanythingofyours，butasafeatureofthescenearoundyou。

Stilltheforestisalways，butthestillnessisnotalwaysunbroken。

Youcanhearthewindpassinthedistanceoverthetree—tops；

sometimesbriefly，likethenoiseofatrain；sometimeswithalongsteadyrush，likethebreakingofwaves。Andsometimes，closeatband，thebranchesmove，amoangoesthroughthethicket，andthewoodthrillstoitsheart。PerhapsyoumayhearacarriageontheroadtoFontainebleau，abirdgivesadrycontinualchirp，thedeadleavesrustleunderfoot，oryoumaytimeyourstepstothesteadyrecurrentstrokesofthewoodman’saxe。Fromtimetotime，overthelowgrounds，aflightofrooksgoesby；andfromtimetotimethecooingofwilddovesfallsupontheear，notsweetandrichandnearathandasinEngland，butasortofvoiceofthewoods，thinandfaraway，asfitsthesesolemnplaces。Oryouhearsuddenlythehollow，eager，violentbarkingofdogs；scareddeerflitpastyouthroughthefringesofthewood；thenamanortworunning，ingreenblouse，withgunandgame—bagonabandoleer；andthen，outofthethickofthetrees，comesthejarofrifle—shots。Orperhapsthehoundsareout，andhornsareblown，andscarlet—coatedhuntsmenflashthroughtheclearings，andthesolidnoiseofhorsesgallopingpassesbelowyou，whereyousitperchedamongtherocksandheather。Theboarisafoot，andallovertheforest，andinallneighbouringvillages，thereisavagueexcitementandavaguehope；forwhoknowswhitherthechasemaylead？andeventohaveseenasinglepiqueur，orspokentoasinglesportsman，istobeamanofconsequenceforthenight。

Besidesmenwhoshootandmenwhoridewiththehounds，therearefewpeopleintheforest，intheearlyspring，savewoodcuttersplyingtheiraxessteadily，andoldwomenandchildrengatheringwoodforthefire。Youmaymeetsuchapartycominghomeinthetwilight：

theoldwomanladenwithafagotofchips，andthelittleoneshaulingalongbranchbehindtheminherwake。Thatistheworstofwhatthereistoencounter；andifItellyouofwhatoncehappenedtoafriendofmine，itisbynomeanstotantaliseyouwithfalsehopes；fortheadventurewasunique。Itwasonaverycold，still，sunlessmorning，withaflatgreyskyandafrostytingleintheair，thatthisfriend（whoshallherebenameless）heardthenotesofakey—bugleplayedwithmuchhesitation，andsawthesmokeofafirespreadoutalongthegreenpine—tops，inaremoteuncannyglen，hardbyahillofnakedboulders。Hedrewnearwarily，andbeheldapicnicpartyseatedunderatreeinanopen。Theoldfatherknittedasock，themothersatstaringatthefire。Theeldestson，intheuniformofaprivateofdragoons，waschoosingoutnotesonakey—

bugle。Twoorthreedaughterslayintheneighbourhoodpickingviolets。Andthewholepartyasgraveandsilentasthewoodsaroundthem！Myfriendwatchedforalongtime，hesays；butallheldtheirpeace；notonespokeorsmiled；onlythedragoonkeptchoosingoutsinglenotesuponthebugle，andthefatherknittedawayathisworkandmadestrangemovementsthewhilewithhisflexibleeyebrows。

Theytooknonoticewhateverofmyfriend’spresence，whichwasdisquietinginitself，andincreasedtheresemblanceofthewholepartytomechanicalwaxworks。Certainly，heaffirms，awaxfiguremighthaveplayedthebuglewithmorespiritthanthatstrangedragoon。Andasthishypothesisofhisbecamemorecertain，theawfulinsolubilityofwhytheyshouldbeleftoutthereinthewoodswithnobodytowindthemupagainwhentheyrandown，andagrowingdisquietudeastowhatmighthappennext，becametoomuchforhiscourage，andheturnedtail，andfairlytooktohisheels。Itmighthavebeenasinginginhisears，buthefancieshewasfollowedasheranbyapealofTitaniclaughter。Nothinghasevertranspiredtoclearupthemystery；itmaybetheywereautomata；oritmaybe（andthisisthetheorytowhichIleanmyself）thatthisisallanotherchapterofHeine’s’GodsinExile’；thattheuprightoldmanwiththeeyebrowswasnootherthanFatherJove，andtheyoungdragoonwiththetasteformusiceitherApolloorMars。

MORALITY

Strangeindeedistheattractionoftheforestforthemindsofmen。

Notoneortwoonly，butagreatchorusofgratefulvoiceshavearisentospreadabroaditsfame。HalfthefamouswritersofmodernFrancehavehadtheirwordtosayaboutFontainebleau。

Chateaubriand，Michelet，Beranger，GeorgeSand，deSenancour，Flaubert，Murger，thebrothersGoncourt，TheodoredeBanville，eachofthesehasdonesomethingtotheeternalpraiseandmemoryofthesewoods。Evenattheveryworstoftimes，evenwhenthepicturesquewasanathemaintheeyesofallPersonsofTaste，theforeststillpreservedacertainreputationforbeauty。Itwasin1730thattheAbbeGuilbertpublishedhisHISTORICALDESCRIPTIONOFTHEPALACE，TOWN，ANDFORESTOFFONTAINEBLEAU。Andverydrollitistoseehim，ashetriestosetforthhisadmirationintermsofwhatwasthenpermissible。Themonstrousrocks，etc。，saystheAbbe’sontadmireesavecsurprisedesvoyageursquis’ecrientaussitotavecHorace：Utmihideviorupeeetvacuumnemusmirarilibet。’Thegoodmanisnotexactlylyricalinhispraise；andyouseehowhesetshisbackagainstHoraceasagainstatrustyoak。Horace，atanyrate，wasclassical。Fortherest，however，theAbbelikesplaceswheremanyalleysmeet；orwhich，liketheBelle—Etoile，arekeptup’byaspecialgardener，’andadmiresattheTableduRoithelaboursoftheGrandMasterofWoodsandWaters，theSieurdelaFalure，’quiafaitfairecemagnifiqueendroit。’

Butindeed，itisnotsomuchforitsbeautythattheforestmakesaclaimuponmen’shearts，asforthatsubtlesomething，thatqualityoftheair，thatemanationfromtheoldtrees，thatsowonderfullychangesandrenewsawearyspirit。Disappointedmen，sickFrancisFirstsandvanquishedGrandMonarchs，timeoutofmindhavecomehereforconsolation。Hitherperplexedfolkhaveretiredoutofthepressoflife，asintoadeepbay—windowonsomenightofmasquerade，andherefoundquietandsilence，andrest，themotherofwisdom。Itisthegreatmoralspa；thisforestwithoutafountainisitselfthegreatfountainofJuventius。Itisthebestplaceintheworldtobringanoldsorrowthathasbeenalongwhileyourfriendandenemy；

andif，likeBeranger’syourgaietyhasrunawayfromhomeandleftopenthedoorforsorrowtocomein，ofallcoversinEurope，itishereyoumayexpecttofindthetruanthid。Witheveryhouryouchange。Theairpenetratesthroughyourclothes，andnestlestoyourlivingbody。Youloveexerciseandslumber，longfastingandfullmeals。Youforgetallyourscruplesandliveawhileinpeaceandfreedom，andforthemomentonly。Forhere，allisabsentthatcanstimulatetomoralfeeling。Suchpeopleasyouseemaybeold，ortoil—worn，orsorry；butyouseethemframedintheforest，likefiguresonapaintedcanvas；andforyou，theyarenotpeopleinanylivingandkindlysense。Youforgetthegrimcontrarietyofinterests。Youforgetthenarrowlanewhereallmenjostletogetherinunchivalrouscontention，andthekennel，deepandunclean，thatgapesoneitherhandforthedefeated。Lifeissimpleenough，itseems，andtheveryideaofsacrificebecomeslikeamadfancyoutofalastnight’sdream。

Youridealisnotperhapshigh，butitisplainandpossible。Youbecomeenamouredofalifeofchangeandmovementandtheopenair，wherethemusclesshallbemoreexercisedthantheaffections。Whenyouhavehadyourwilloftheforest，youmayvisitthewholeroundworld。Youmaybuckleonyourknapsackandtaketheroadonfoot。

Youmaybestrideagoodnag，andrideforth，withapairofsaddle—

bags，intotheenchantedEast。YoumaycrosstheBlackForest，andseeGermanywide—spreadbeforeyou，likeamap，dottedwitholdcities，walledandspired，thatdreamalldayontheirownreflectionsintheRhineorDanube。YoumaypassthespinalcordofEuropeandgodownfromAlpineglacierstowhereItalyextendshermarblemolesandglasseshermarblepalacesinthemidlandsea。Youmaysleepinflyingtrainsorwaysidetaverns。Youmaybeawakenedatdawnbythescreamoftheexpressorthesmallpipeoftherobininthehedge。Foryoutherainshouldallaythedustofthebeatenroad；thewinddryyourclothesuponyouasyouwalked。Autumnshouldhangoutrussetpearsandpurplegrapesalongthelane；innafterinnprofferyoutheircupsofrawwine；riverbyriverreceiveyourbodyinthesultrynoon。Whereveryouwentwarmvalleysandhightreesandpleasantvillagesshouldcompassyouabout；andlightfellowshipsshouldtakeyoubythearm，andwalkwithyouanhouruponyourway。Youmayseefromafaroffwhatitwillcometointheend—theweather—beatenred—nosedvagabond，consumedbyafeverofthefeet，cutofffromallneartouchofhumansympathy，awaif，anIshmael，andanoutcast。Andyetitwillseemwell—andyet，intheairoftheforest，thiswillseemthebest—tobreakallthenetworkboundaboutyourfeetbybirthandoldcompanionshipandloyallove，andbearyourshovelfulofphosphatestoandfro，intowncountry，untilthehourofthegreatdissolvent。

Or，perhaps，youwillkeeptothecover。Fortheforestisbyitself，andforestlifeownssmallkinshipwithlifeinthedismallandoflabour。Menaresofarsophisticatedthattheycannottaketheworldasitisgiventothembythesightoftheireyes。Notonlywhattheyseeandhear，butwhattheyknowtobebehind，enterintotheirnotionofaplace。Ifthesea，forinstance，liejustacrossthehills，sea—thoughtswillcometothematintervals，andthetenoroftheirdreamsfromtimetotimewillsufferasea—change。

Andsohere，inthisforest，aknowledgeofitsgreatnessisformuchintheeffectproduced。Youreckonupthemilesthatliebetweenyouandintrusion。Youmaywalkbeforeyoualldaylong，andnotfeartotouchthebarrierofyourEden，orstumbleoutoffairylandintothelandofginandsteam—hammers。AndthereisanoldtaleenhancesfortheimaginationthegrandeurofthewoodsofFrance，andsecuresyouinthethoughtofyourseclusion。WhenCharlesVI。huntedinthetimeofhiswildboyhoodnearSenlis，therewascapturedanoldstag，havingacollarofbronzeabouthisneck，andthesewordsengravedonthecollar：’Caesarmihihocdonavit。’Itisnowonderifthemindsofmenweremovedatthisoccurrenceandtheystoodaghasttofindthemselvesthustouchinghandswithforgottenages，andfollowinganantiquitywithhoundandhorn。Andevenforyou，itisscarcelyinanidlecuriositythatyouponderhowmanycenturiesthisstaghadcarrieditsfreeantlersthroughthewood，andhowmanysummersandwintershadshoneandsnowedontheimperialbadge。Iftheextentofsolemnwoodcouldthussafeguardatallstagfromthehunter’shoundsandhouses，mightnotyoualsoplayhide—and—seek，inthesegroves，withallthepangsandtrepidationsofman’slife，andeludeDeath，themightyhunter，formorethanthespanofhumanyears？Here，also，crashhisarrows；here，inthefarthestglade，soundsthegallopofthepalehorse。Buthedoesnothuntthiscoverwithallhishounds，forthegameisthinandsmall：andifyouwerebutalertandwary，ifyoulodgedeverinthedeepestthickets，youtoomightliveonintolatergenerationsandastonishmenbyyourstalwartageandthetrophiesofanimmemorialsuccess。

Fortheforesttakesawayfromyouallexcusetodie。Thereisnothingheretocabinorthwartyourfreedesires。Herealltheimpudenciesofthebrawlingworldreachyounomore。Youmaycountyourhours，likeEndymion，bythestrokesofthelonewoodcutter，orbytheprogressionofthelightsandshadowsandthesunwheelinghiswidecircuitthroughthenakedheavens。Hereshallyouseenoenemiesbutwinterandroughweather。Andifapangcomestoyouatall，itwillbeapangofhealthfulhunger。Allthepulingsorrows，allthecarkingrepentance，allthistalkofdutythatisnoduty，inthegreatpeace，inthepuredaylightofthesewoods，fallawayfromyoulikeagarment。Andifperchanceyoucomeforthuponaneminence，wherethewindblowsuponyoulargeandfresh，andthepinesknocktheirlongstemstogether，likeanungainlysortofpuppets，andseefarawayovertheplainafactorychimneydefinedagainstthepalehorizon—itisforyou，asforthestaidandsimplepeasantwhen，withhisplough，heupturnsoldarmsandharnessfromthefurrowoftheglebe。Ay，sureenough，therewasabattlethereintheoldtimes；and，sureenough，thereisaworldoutyonderwheremenstrivetogetherwithanoiseofoathsandweepingandclamorousdispute。Somuchyouapprehendbyanathleticactoftheimagination。Afaintfar—offrumourasofMerovingianwars；alegendasofsomedeadreligion。

CHAPTERVI—AMOUNTAINTOWNINFRANCEAFRAGMENT1879

ORIGINALLYINTENDEDTOSERVEASTHEOPENINGCHAPTEROF’TRAVELSWITH

ADONKEYINTHECEVENNES。’

LEMONASTIERisthechiefplaceofahillycantoninHauteLoire，theancientVelay。Asthenamebetokens，thetownisofmonasticorigin；

anditstillcontainsatoweredbulkofmonasteryandachurchofsomearchitecturalpretensions，theseatofanarch—priestandseveralvicars。ItstandsonthesideofhillabovetheriverGazeille，aboutfifteenmilesfromLePuy，upasteeproadwherethewolvessometimepursuethediligenceinwinter。Theroad，whichisboundforVivarais，passesthroughthetownfromendtoendinasinglenarrowstreet；thereyoumayseethefountainwherewomenfilltheirpitchers；therealsosomeoldhouseswithcarveddoorsandpedimentandornamentalworkiniron。ForMonastier，likeMayboleinAyrshire，wasasortofcountrycapital，wherethelocalaristocracyhadtheirtownmansionsforthewinter；andthereisacertainbaronstillaliveand，Iamtold，extremelypenitent，whofoundmeanstoruinhimselfbyhighlivinginthisvillageonthehills。Hecertainlyhasclaimstobeconsideredthemostremarkablespendthriftonrecord。Howhesetaboutit，inaplacewheretherearenoluxuriesforsale，andwheretheboardatthebestinncomestolittlemorethanashillingaday，isaproblemforthewise。Hisson，ruinedasthefamilywas，wentasfarasParistosowhiswildoats；andsothecasesoffatherandsonmarkanepochinthehistoryofcentralisationinFrance。NotuntilthelatterhadgotintothetrainwastheworkofRichelieucomplete。

Itisapeopleoflace—makers。Thewomensitinthestreetsbygroupsoffiveorsix；andthenoiseofthebobbinsisaudiblefromonegrouptoanother。Nowandthenyouwillhearonewomanclatteringoffprayersfortheedificationoftheothersattheirwork。Theyweargaudyshawls，whitecapswithagayribbonaboutthehead，andsometimesablackfeltbrigandhatabovethecap；andsotheygivethestreetcolourandbrightnessandaforeignair。A

whileago，whenEnglandlargelysuppliedherselffromthisdistrictwiththelacecalledTORCHON，itwasnotunusualtoearnfivefrancsaday；andfivefrancsinMonastierisworthapoundinLondon。Now，fromachangeinthemarket，ittakesacleverandindustriouswork—

womantoearnfromthreetofourintheweek，orlessthananeighthofwhatshemadeeasilyafewyearsago。Thetideofprosperitycameandwent，aswithournorthernpitmen，andleftnobodythericher。

Thewomenbravelysquanderedtheirgains，keptthemeninidleness，andgavethemselvesup，asIwastold，tosweetheartingandamerrylife。Fromweek’sendtoweek’senditwasonecontinuousgalainMonastier；peoplespentthedayinthewine—shops，andthedrumorthebagpipesledontheBOURREESuptotenatnight。Nowthesedancingdaysareover。’ILN’YAPLUSDEJEUNESSE，’saidVictorthegarcon。Ihearofnogreatadvanceinwhatarethoughttheessentialsofmorality；buttheBOURREE，withitsrambling，sweet，interminablemusic，andalertandrusticfigures，hasfallenintodisuse，andismostlyrememberedasacustomofthepast。Onlyontheoccasionofthefairshallyouhearadrumdiscreetlyinawine—

shoporperhapsoneofthecompanysingingthemeasurewhiletheothersdance。Iamsorryatthechange，andmarveloncemoreatthecomplicatedschemeofthingsuponthisearth，andhowaturnoffashioninEnglandcansilencesomuchmountainmerrimentinFrance。