at his farm-house at Prodhun, a circumstance which none of us had forgotten, and which produced the most curious contrasts. Thus, for instance, whilst we were all lodged in two rooms, to the number of about a dozen, where there was hardly room for four, the déjeûners and dinners were served by Chevet; and that was the reason why Perret had said so emphatically that "it will not be as it was last year." Ragot then had departed, and we were exceedingly anxious for his return. Twenty times during the day, we walked out along the road by which we knew he would come back, auguring sometimes good-luck, and then again that an unpropitious result would attend his mission; and as our hopes and fears alternately rose and fell, we pronounced Perret a hero that ought to be carried to the Capitol, or a traitor to be dragged to the place of execution. As to Perret, he sat as calm and as confident as any Stoic, looking at us sometimes above and at other times beneath his spectacles, with as much composure as if the wild-boar was safely enclosed within the stable of his farm, and only waited for our arrival, to be turned out and hunted; and at last we really felt under the perfect conviction that he had entered into some compact with Ragot to prepare some animal still tamer, if possible, than the poor old centenarian stag which we had amused ourselves with in the ditches round the Château de Sully. At last, when we had risen from the diningtable, a footman entered the drawing-room, and said to the Marquis Mac-Mahon these words, apparently so insignificant, "Ragot has returned." You have seen, no doubt, sometimes, my dear readers, a wild pack of hounds, at the moment when the huntsman is about to let them out through the kennel-door for the purpose of conducting them to the rendezvous, and you have remarked with what an impetuosity they all rush at once to that outlet which is to lead them to glory; the lighter ones jump over the backs of those which are slower in moving out of the way, whilst the stronger push aside those which are weaker, and all manage to keep their places so well, that they all come out together. This may appear strange, but it is nevertheless perfectly true. Well! this was exactly the scene acted at the door of the drawing-room at Sully, and I think that the hounds we alluded to ought to consider themselves highly complimented by the comparison. Ragot had evident proofs that the wild-boar was there. There was a moment of profound silence, and then a general shout which echoed through the vestibule of Sully, "Vive Perret!!" In an instant all the necessary orders were given, and the preparations made for the morrow. It was decided that the pack should set out immediately, to sleep at Autun; and the rendezvous was fixed to be at the Cabaret de Truchot, on the road to Montcenis. We then returned to the drawing-room, where we all appeared more charming and amiable than we had done during the whole of the previous week. During the night a little snow had fallen, a circumstance which we considered as fortunate, as it would be the means of tracing the animal more easily. At the hour prefixed we all arrived at the door of the Cabaret de Truchot, and, waited impatiently for the piqueurs, whose account, when they returned, plunged us all into the profoundest consternation. Martin had certainly found the boar; but Ragot, who had followed his track for more than an hour, had not been able to pronounce him "remis." The animal continually going, had traversed the great cantons of wood which were the least intersected by paths, crossed over two small rivers, and taken at last to the open country. The opinion of Ragot was that he had migrated to the great forests of Charolais, and that he had no hope of his returning at present to his old quarters. I hope you will have some little indulgence for all the exclamations of despair, all the curses that saluted that most desolating announcement. The twenty-ninth bulletin of the grande armée, which announced to France the disasters of Moscow, did not cause a greater degree of stupor and disappointment. We were at the same time overcome with consternation, and furious with chagrin. Perret had immediately sunk down to the level of an ordinary mortal-something a little lower perhaps. The Marquis de Mac-Mahon alone appeared not to be discouraged; for, in opposition to the opinion of Ragot, he considered it more than probable that the boar, accustomed to the woods about Prodhun, had, in the moments of either caprice or fear, described a large circle, and then returned by the wood of Masvres to his old quarters. Friend Perret was also of the same opinion, and notwithstanding the check that his infallibility had experienced, he agreed that the piqueurs had better return with him to Prodhun and sleep there, whilst we went back to Sully to await the result of their research the next morning. After some hesitation, I however resolved to accompany Perret, and away we went following slowly and sorrowfully the line of the great alley which led from the wood of Prodhun to the forest of Planoize, when suddenly Ragot, raising himself up in his stirrups, cried out to Perret, "You were quite right, sir; there is the track of your wild-boar." The eagle-glance of Ragot had discerned the animal's track on the top of a bank by the road side, on a wet spot where the snow had melted, and he immediately dismounted to make himself quite sure that there could be no mistake; and, within a couple of hours after the party had hopelessly separated, we had the wild-boar "rembuché" in the wood of Prodhun; so that when the Marquis de Mac-Mahon was just getting off his horse, he received at Sully, which was four leagues from Prodhun, a billet from his friend Perret, who, upon the return of the boar having been discovered, sent off a messenger express, with the following poetical effusion : LE PLUS HUMBLE DE VENEURS AU GRAND MAITRE. Du Sanglier Prodhun, hommage au grand veneur ! Lui seul a bien connu son allure et son cœur ; Une fausse sortie a trompé tout-a-l'heure : Il n'avait pas quitté pour toujours sa demeure. Habebis ossu mea! This means, my dear Mac-Mahon, in good French, that the boar has returned to Prodhun, as you seemed to imagine that he would do; that he is "remis" in my wood; that we will hunt him to morrow, and you may depend upon finding him. The breakfast will be ready at ten o'clock. Rallie-Bourgogne! Tout à vous, JULES PERRET. To those who may be gifted with the least spark of the sacred fire of imagination, it is easy to conceive what a magic effect this letter immediately produced, when the Marquis read it out to his disappointed and dispirited guests. They appeared quite diverted with the news; they shook hands, they sang, they cried (for no joy is complete without a few tears); and if Perret had himself been present, they would have carried him on their shoulders in triumph; however, they contented themselves by forgetting all the evil they had spoken of him, and acknowledged him, for the second time within twenty-four hours, as a hero. After all, men are not so bad as they are generally represented. At the appointed hour, all the joyous party, whose forces had been augmented by the unexpected arrival of Alexandre de Vitry, descended from their carriages in the humble court-yard of the modest Prodhun. Perret received, upon the threshold of his shooting-box, in all the good taste of modesty, the congratulations, the blessings, and the salutations of his illustrious friends. The boar was "remis" within ten minutes of the house, and the breakfast emitted a most agreeable odour from the cellar to the very garrets. I have no doubt that a description of the breakfast would prove exceedingly amusing to my readers; but how can I achieve it, when I have not sufficient talent to paint all its eccentricities? How can I describe these beautiful turkeys, so tender perhaps whilst living, and so tough when killed, but nevertheless devoured with so much good-will and appetite? How can I paint to you the great buxom peasant-wenches, with their staring eyes, their coarse red arms, running round the table-one pouring out the wine, another perhaps repelling some too familiar advances? And how can I find sufficient words to do justice to that Chambertin, child of the comet in 1811, that Malagas, contemporary with Philip the Second, and those delicious liqueurs from the cellars of Madame Amphoux? I have dug into the very foundation of my memory; I have turned and returned my remembrances from one side to the other, but I can bring to mind nothing that can be compared to the half-mad gaiety, the amiable jollity that pervaded that celebrated repast. All our hopes, all our desires, bottled-up for days like champagne, seemed to have exploded at once. The chaffing, the epigrams, and the toasts, seemed to increase with the emptyings of the bottles, which were continually on the move, and almost in the way of our glasses as they crossed. They called on me for a song; for I was a bit of a singer in those days, and I did not wait to be asked twice; but I had hardly achieved the first stanza of my lay, when suddenly the door was burst open of the room where we were breakfasting, which was on the first-floor, and one of our maritornes shouted out these words in the most dismal tone, which certainly would have been sufficient to have cleared a palace, "The house is on fire; and the cinders are falling like rain into the kitchen." "Open your umbrellas," said our host, Perret, "and don't come here disturbing us. "Vive Perret!" We all cried out, without budging one inch. The next who came up stairs was Ragot himself, who declared that the wild boar would wind the fire and escape. "Go to the devil, and don't interfere with us," roared out the whole party, with the exception of the best chasseur amongst us, the worthy Marquis de Mac-Mahon, who declared that this bit of advice from his piqueur was really worth attending to. "Well! to horse then," was cry, "and let the house take care of itself;" and away we rushed down the the staircase, which crackled like a cutlet on the gridiron. When we arrived at the kitchen, we plainly perceived that the beam was threeparts burnt asunder. "Master (I forget the farmer's name) said Perret, "when the hounds have found the boar, you may put out the fire; but if you make the least noise before we find, so as to disturb the boar, you may just look out for the renewal of your lease next year, that is all." The departure was rather an extraordinary scene; but nevertheless, although the horsemen did not appear to preserve that equilibrium of seat so essential in the chase, the few falls that occurred during our passage to the rendezvous were not attended with any dangerous results, and the general hilarity of the company, always in the ascendancy, seemed in no way to be diminished by the few catastrophes which happened of that description, and the whole cavalcade arrived at last at the spot where Ragot had placed his "brisée," without being disbanded. The hounds were uncoupled, and in five minutes the boar was on his legs, and the pack "drank him," to use an expression consecrated to such events. Old Denis, that ancient piqueur of my father's, had another saying, which I never heard made use of excepting by him: when hounds were running hard and doing their work in good style, he used to observe-" These hounds work now to help me do my duty to you,” Now then the boar is found, and the whole field of horsemen are riding at "catch as catch can" upon the line which the hounds have taken. The weather was beautiful, a regular mild November day, and no more wind than you would find in the bed-room of an invalid. Every sound of the horn, or note from the hound, fell clear upon the ear, and enabled the sportsmen to drive along without being obliged to stop and listen for the pack. Perhaps the horsemen might have been rather in that condition designated as "three-sheets-in-the-wind;" but their horses, which had drunk nothing but draughts from the crystal fountain, guided their docile riders with a marvellous sagacity, whether their road lay through the tangled underwood, or beneath the spreading grove, or up the difficult ground of some broken and stony eminence. The boar, faithful to his habits and to the prophecy contained in the sublime poetry of his patron, Monsieur Jules Perret, returned, after having described a tolerably extensive circuit round the neighbouring forest, to the locality where he was first found, evidently determined to end his days in the woods of Prodhun. He broke, however, once more over the high-road which runs from Paris to Lyons, and then, after running some time on the opposite side, recrossed the road and tried to regain his favourite haunts, and passing along the edge of the pond of Lanove, which is on the boundary of the forest of Planoize, came to bay under a rock which happened to present itself, where, after having killed two hounds and wounded four or five more, his career was finished by a ball through the head, from the gun of Olivier de la Rochefoucauld, who was lucky enough to be first up. This dry analysis must necessarily give the reader but a very imperfect idea of that chase, which was in reality admirable, and far superior to anything of the sort that our most sanguine hopes could have anticipated. The great pace we went at through the forest, the steadiness and invincible determination of the hounds, and the stoutness of the hunted animal, together with the dramatic finish, accompanied by the cheering notes of l'hallali, left nothing more to be desired. Our return home, which I must not forget, was almost as joyous as the morning's ride to the rendezvous; and it is superfluous to add, that our entrée into the great court at Sully was perfectly triumphant. When we were all assembled in the drawing-room after dinner, some one enquired of our friend Perret how his house got on, and if the fire had been put out: he merely made answer that he had never once thought of it since; and upon the Marquis de Mac-Mahon requesting him to allow him to send a messenger over to make enquiries, he observed, with the most perfect composure, that the trouble would be useless, adding, without a muscle of his face undergoing the least change, Let us have a little whist." HUNTERS AND HUNTING MEN. BY HARRY HIEOVER. In using the term "Hunters," the sportsman will naturally conclude that I allude only to the horses that carry us. It is not, however, quite thus; for before I say anything relative to the quadruped, I have a word or two to say about the biped hunter. Now speaking of a man as a hunter, no more conveys the same ideas to the man of the present half-century, of a hunting man, than does using the term "waggoner " carry our thoughts to the once artists that tooled the Quicksilver, Berkley Hunt, Manchester Express, Brighton Age or Pearl; though those "lights of other days" were frequently in road language mentioned as first-rate waggoners. It is quite true the rail is beyond comparison faster than the "Wonders" of such times, even over their best bit of five-mile ground, where a team of four all but thoroughbreds, half cripples, who could go in no other way but a gallop, went a pace that would not have been thought bad over the flat at Newmarket; and the momentum of the coach once got in full swing, they had little more to do than keep out of its way. Everything is more or less (a something) by comparison; so the next stage out of Hounslow, that I have so often driven over with perfect delight, when the old uns had got settled a-bit to their collars, began to find their legs, and only wanted holding together, was slow to the ordinary working of the iron-way. So far, my still-cherished conveyance is beat; but if our coaches were slower than our steamers, let me tell the rising generation that the men of those days were a good deal" faster" than are the majority of those of the present one; for the man is not made in technical terms "fast," because the tender that draws him is. It is true it may sound "fast" if, with an affected yawn, a young gentleman raises himself on the wellstuffed cushion of a first-class carriage, and lisps his opinion that “we are going confounded slow," when thirty miles an hour is the speed. I must, however, tell the gentleman that, though the train is actually |