THE FINALE. 67 



never woke until morning. Then 1 grew more used to it, 

 dressing and talking familiarly the while, and got on 

 famously ; but still, both in a moral and comfortable point 

 of view, I cannot say the Breton bed is to my mind. The 

 second day we did better, finding a ftur quantity of 

 game, though it was very wild, and the third day re- 

 turned home, I more steeled than ever against a too con- 

 fiding credulity in French narrative. How would our 

 English farmers stare at their Breton brethren, who do 

 not live so w^ell as many labourers. The worthy people 

 wdiom we visited gave us all they had, and without 

 grudging; but, in truth, they had nothing to give, save 

 black bread, bacon, and very fiery alcohol, enough to 

 burn its way to the surface ; this, wdth cabbage leaf soup, 

 was grand doings for them. The young landlord that was 

 to be knew nothing of them or of the farm, never made 

 a remark about the cultivation of this field or the state of 

 the other, and did not know even the acreage of it. How 

 can we expect attention and good tenants, wdiere we have 

 such careless, inattentive landlords ? The farm itself was 

 good land, and, with a little outlay of capital, might have 

 been greatly improved ; as it was, surface water was 

 starving everything, neither removed by drainage, nor 

 conducted where it was wanted by irrigation. 



The other day I had a lively discussion with a French- 

 man as to the chances of war between England and France. 

 He assumed the usual French tone, that the point would 

 be settled in a month, and England captured — as he said, 

 the Channel is " but a lono; brido;e." " Ah ! but," said I, 



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