bounding roebuck; and, should these sports appear too tame, he may, if
foot and heart are sound, plunge into the dark recesses of the forest
in pursuit of the savage and grisly boar, or the fierce and prowling
wolf.

When evening comes, bringing with it peace and rest to the industrious
peasant, when the moon shall light her bright lamp in the star-spangled
heavens, and shed her silvery rays across the plain, the hunter may lead
forth the village belle, and foot it merrily on the mossy greensward, to
the sound of the bagpipe and the rustic flute, by fountains which never
cease their monotonous but soothing plaint, and under the long shadows
of the ancient oaks and tall acacias.

Happiness, says Solomon, consists not in the possession of that gold for
which men toil so unremittingly and grave deep wrinkles on the heart and
brow. Happiness lights not her torch at the crystal lustres in the halls
of royalty; she rarely chooses for her home the marble palaces of the
wealthy, nor is she often the companion of the great, robed in costly
apparel; rarely does she braid her hair with pearls, or wear the rosy
lightning of the ruby on her fair bosom.

Happiness is known only to him who, free and contented, lives unknown in
his little corner, deaf to the turmoil and insensible to the excitements
of the selfish crowd, and ignorant of the sorrows and sufferings of
great cities. She is found in the enjoyment of the sunshine and the open
air, in the shady groves and flowery fields, by the side of the
murmuring brooks, and in the society of the gay, frank, and
simple-minded peasant of my own dear country. Oh! my white and pretty
_pavillon_, whose walls are clad with fragrant creepers and the luscious
vine, whose porch is scented with the woodbine and the rose--oh! lovely
valleys, dark forests, deep blue lakes which sleep unruffled in the
bosom of the hills, beautiful vine-clad hills, where in the morning of
my youth I chased those flying flowers, the bright and painted
butterflies--oh! when, when shall I see you all again--like the bird of
passage, which, when the winter is over, returns to his sunny home? When
shall I see thee again? Oh! my sweet Le Morvan! Oh! my native land!
Happy, thrice happy they who cherish in their hearts the love of nature,
who prefer her sublime and incomparable beauties to the false and
artificial works of man, accumulated with so much cost and care within
the walls of her great cities. Happy, too, are thos