Sons of the Soil

Les Aigues, August 6, 1823.To Monsieur Nathan, My dear Nathan, -You, who provide the public with such delightful dreams through the magicof your imagination, are now to follow me while I make you dream a dream of truth. You shall thentell me whether the present century is likely to bequeath such dreams to the Nathans and theBlondets of the year 1923; you shall estimate the distance at which we now are from the days whenthe Florines of the eighteenth century found, on awaking, a chateau like Les Aigues in the terms oftheir bargain.My dear fellow, if you receive this letter in the morning, let your mind travel, as you lie in bed, fifty leagues or thereabouts from Paris, along the great mail road which leads to the confines ofBurgundy, and behold two small lodges built of red brick, joined, or separated, by a rail paintedgreen. It was there that the diligence deposited your friend and correspondent.On either side of this double pavilion grows a quick-set hedge, from which the brambles stragglelike stray locks of hair. Here and there a tree shoots boldly up; flowers bloom on the slopes of thewayside ditch, bathing their feet in its green and sluggish water. The hedge at both ends meets andjoins two strips of woodland, and the double meadow thus inclosed is doubtless the result of aclearing.These dusty and deserted lodges give entrance to a magnificent avenue of centennial elms, whoseumbrageous heads lean toward each other and form a long and most majestic arbor. The grassgrows in this avenue, and only a few wheel-tracks can be seen along its double width of way. Thegreat age of the trees, the breadth of the avenue, the venerable construction of the lodges, the browntints of their stone courses, all bespeak an approach to some half-regal residence.Before reaching this enclosure from the height of an eminence such as we Frenchmen ratherconceitedly call a mountain, at the foot of which lies the village of Conches (the last post-house), Ihad seen the long valley of Aigues, at the farther end of which the mail road turns to follow astraight line into the little sub-prefecture of La Ville-aux-Fayes, over which, as you know, thenephew of our friend des Lupeaulx lords it. Tall forests lying on the horizon, along vast slopeswhich skirt a river, command this rich valley, which is framed in the far distance by the mountains ofa lesser Switzerland, called the Morvan. These forests belong to Les Aigues, and to the Marquis deRonquerolles and the Comte de Soulanges, whose castles and parks and villages, seen in the distancefrom these heights, give the scene a strong resemblance to the imaginary landscapes of VelvetBreugh