248 A MONTH IN THE FORESTS OF FRANCE. 



CHAP. XVII. 



" Time hung not heavy ; I could think 

 On one sweet form my land contained, 

 And gaze, as from a river's brink, 

 Which flowing on its course maintained 

 The beaming lily — white as snow, 

 Or pearly treasures deep below, 

 And feel that distance, time, nor tide, 

 Could keep the loved one from my side !" 



Berkeley. 



" No man can tether time nor tide ;" and with this 

 line from the dear poet " Burns," I commence ap- 

 proaching the penultimate chapter of my Month in the 

 Forests of France. The hounds at the chateau were 

 by this time (we were getting far advanced in the 

 month of October) almost hors de combat — barley- 

 bread, mange, and too much work were fast telling 

 on the few that had limbs and truth enough in their 

 composition to be useful, and I saw that, however 

 agreeable the society of my kind friends might be, 

 still, so far as the wolf and wild boar went, there was 

 no more to be got from them. And here let me al- 

 lude to a question asked with great nawete the other 

 day, in Paris, by that clever journal " Le Sport," as to 



