We have just briefly sketched the two extremes, the old men of Le Morvan and its sprightly damosels: we must now mention the inhabitants generally, and these vary like its productions according to locality. The peasant of the plains is civil, gentle, and industrious, but cunning and dangerous as an old fox; and if he thinks money may be squeezed from your pocket, be sure there will be no sleep for him till he has taken some out of it. Full of fun, he loves above all the dance, the song, the merry laugh, and good cheer--and the uncorking of a bottle would be for him a supreme delight, if this excellence itself was not superseded, by the far greater blessedness of emptying it. The inhabitant of the mountain, on the other hand, is sober, severe and roughly barked--clothed with silence and gravity, smiling but once a year--the day he has cheated a good man of the plain; he does not please so much at first sight: but if in any danger, if you are surprised by a hurricane, surrounded with wolves; or you have lost your way, in a night as dark as the grave itself, you call and ask his help, oh! it is then that his sterling qualities shine forth in all their splendour. Always ready, always on the look out, the ear for ever bent to catch the well-known sounds of the forest, the slightest indication of distress awakes his vigilance; it is then he comes, it is then he flies, and his arm, gun, and eyes--his cabin, dog, and lean horse are all at your command. Admirable example of courage and of devotedness: money for him is nothing; happy to be useful, he obliges for the mere pleasure of obliging. Many, many times have I seen poachers, cottagers, charcoal-burners, and wood-cutters, poor as Job, hardly breeched, hungry as a whole Irish borough, leave their work, their sport, their field, their tree half down,--abandon in the roads, under the guard of the dogs, their carts and oxen, and go some dozen of miles, through storm and tempest, through rush, rock, and swamp, to set a sportsman in his right way again. Without saying a word, with steps attendant on his weary progress, they trudge on before, making a sign for him to follow; and when they have placed him once more on his road, a nod, a shake of the hand, a smile, a kind word falling from his lips, pays them the full price of all their troubles. Never have I seen one of them accept the least pecuniary reward for such services--they do nothing but their duty, they say; and as they are happy in the firm conviction that the whole forest belongs to them, they think they are only doing the honours of their green drawing-rooms. Thus it always happens, that when, by their good care, you have escaped certain danger, it is with great difficulty, and only after a deluge of rhetoric, that they consent to accept for their daughters or wives a red wool dress, a gold cross, or a row of large blue Pundaram beads; or for themselves a few dozen of iron bullets, a bag of shot, or a flask of powder. This abnegation, this