The Lost Found.
Inthe south-eastern part of France is a range of mountains called the Cevennes. The highest points are about as elevated as Mount Washington, in New Hampshire. These mountains are remarkable for their wild, rugged, and broken character, and for the furious storms and tempests to which they are subject. In winter the snow falls to a great depth, and sometimes the inhabitants, being buried in the drifts, cut arch-ways beneath, and thus pass from one house to another.
These wild regions are not only celebrated in history as being the places of refuge to which the Huguenots retreated during their fearful and bloody persecution—about two hundred and fifty years ago—but as producing a race of people of peculiarly adventurous habits. Surrounded by natural objects of a savage aspect—grisly rocks, dark cavernous ravines—and trees hoary with age; their memories tinged with the traditionary romances attached to their ancestors; battling day by day with a sterile soil and a rugged climate for subsistence; often disputing with the bear and the wolf their very habitations; and, above all, touched with the lights and shadows of religion, mingled with various superstitions; these people present an interesting subject of regard to the student of human nature. Leaving them to the philosophers, however, it is our present design merely to tell a story which may shed some little light on the modes of life which prevail among these people.
In a little hamlet embosomed in the mountains, lived Pierre Bec, a poor laborer, with his only daughter, Aimee. Their house was of rough stone, laid in mud, and covered with pieces of bark as a roof. Here they dwelt with no other companions than a dog, named Tonnerre, which, in English, meansthunder.
Aimee’s mother died when she was an infant; and after she could run alone, the little girl was left pretty much to her own guidance. The hamlet where she dwelt, consisted of only a dozen hovels, much like her own home. These were situated on an elevated ridge, in the very bosom of the mountain, and surrounded with wooded cliffs and dizzy precipices. A scene more wild, remote and lonely could scarcely be imagined.
Here Aimee grew to the age of nine years, and at that period she had not only become familiar with the scenes around, but, like the wild goats, she could climb the cliffs and thread the dells as fearlessly as if she had wings to support her, in case her foot should slide. Nor was this all. She could even go to the market town of Laperdu, a distance of seven miles, and return in the course of the day, having carried and sold a pair of stockings which had been made with her own hands.
In all these mountain excursions, old Tonnerre was the constant companion of Aimee, and he contributed not a little to her amusement. His activity knew no bounds. He must plunge into every thicket; put his head into everycave and crevice; smell up the larger trees; course through the ravines, and take, in short, a careful survey of the country over which they passed. He must banter with every squirrel that took refuge in the trees, daring him down with many a noisy shout. He must give chase to every hare that glanced across his path. He must mark the track of the wolf and bear with cries and howls of defiance, though in such cases he used to keep near his mistress, either for her safety or his own.
Such was Aimee, and such old Tonnerre, the hero and heroine of our tale, when, on a fine summer morning, they set out on a visit to Laperdu. They reached the place, and on their return were about two miles from their home, when one of the violent thunder storms, common in the mountains, began to darken the sky. It was already sunset, and in a few minutes the darkness became intense; at the same time the rain began to fall in torrents. In a short space, the ravines were spouting with waterfalls, and torrents were dashing madly down the glens. At the same time the roar of the thunder was perpetual, and the lightning, flash on flash, seemed to array the scene in garments of fire. Accustomed to such scenes, Aimee pushed on, following the lead of the dog, who kept close, and with fidgety anxiety turned round at every step to fortify her heart with a look of cheerfulness and courage. There was that in his face which seemed to say, “Don’t mind it, my dear little mistress—don’t mind it—it’s nothing but thunder and lightning, and wind, and rain, and tempest, and dark night, and we’ll get the better of it all, yet. Keep a good heart, and we’ll soon be home!”
Aimee did keep a good heart, but the storm was indeed fearful; and at last a bolt of lightning, falling upon a tree near by, tore it in splinters, and dashed the little girl to the ground. Here she lay, in a state of insensibility. The dog came to her side, and in a beseeching howl, seemed to try to awaken her. He at last began licking her face, but all was in vain. He remained with the poor girl till it was near morning, when, having used every art and device of which he was master, to recall her to consciousness, he set off with a round gallop for the hamlet. Panting and out of breath, he rushed up to his master, and with a piteous howl, did all he could to tell his melancholy story.
Pierre knew at once that something had befallen his child. He instantly announced his fears to his neighbors, who rallied at his call, and set out in search of Aimee. Her absence during the night had been remarked, and all the people had feared some accident, though Pierre had solaced himself with the idea that Aimee had been kept at Laperdu by the storm.
Tonnerre took the lead, and bounded forward like a deer. He went in long leaps, his hinder heels flying high in the air at every jump. He whined, howled, and came often back upon his track, as if to hasten forward the too tardy party. At last Pierre, who was the most anxious, and the leader of the group, came near the place where Aimee had fallen. The dog then leaped forward, and placing himself by the side of the girl, once more licked her face. She instantly raised herself so as to sit up, and putting her arms around the neck of her friend, embraced him, while the tears began to flow down her cheeks. Her father soon arrived, and the rest of the party coming up, all were rejoiced to find the poor girl unhurt. She was a little bewildered, and it was not until after several minutes, that she was able to tell her story. At last she arose upon her feet, on her wooden shoes, which had been knocked off by the lightning, and went home.
An occasion like this, would be noticedwith pleasure, in any country; but these wild mountaineers appear to be peculiarly sensible to everything that is beautiful, even though it be but a display of the activity with which animals are endowed by their Creator. Accordingly, the tale we have told, was commemorated by an anniversary; every year, on the day in which the event occurred, the people used to go to a wild spot in the mountain, where a dog was wreathed with flowers, in honor of the feats of old Tonnerre.