288 The Unknown River. 



Bibracte is almost without a history. Caesar went there, 

 and said that it was a great stronghold, and took provi- 

 sions from it for his army, but left us scarcely a word of 

 description. Bibracte can never have been more than 

 a great fortified hill-village, or Gaulish oppidum, com- 

 posed of very rude huts, huddled close together, and 

 protected by solid walls built in the strong Gaulish way, 

 with logs nailed together with huge nails, and earth and 

 stone between them. Floating down the river in the 

 evening I saw the last flames of sunset die behind the 

 Beuvray, and the majesty of its purple crests was en- 

 hanced by its ancient strength. What is on the hill- 

 crest now ? On the site of the buried city is a forest of 

 old gnarled beeches, and in the midst of the forest stands 

 a little camp of huts, where an antiquary passes his sum- 

 mers, with a band of faithful men. Even now, I thought, 

 in the evening, he is standing on some brow of rock, 

 and looking over the boundless plains. He can see the 

 lands beyond the Loire, and the whole course of the 

 river that I am obscurely exploring. And when the 

 twilight comes, and his evening walk is over, he will go 

 to his wooden hut and sleep amidst his trophies. A 

 pleasant, enthusiastic, absorbed life he has of it up 

 there ! He tells me that there is danger in the delight 

 of it, the danger of a too complete abandonment to the 

 enjoyment of glorious Nature and the dear antiquarian 

 dream. He has a charming house in the city, with its 

 salons filled with pictures and its museum with antiqui- 

 ties, and only a rough hut up there on the mountain ; 

 but every year as the summer comes he longs for the 



