'Pas bong pretres ici,' said
the Presbyterian, 'bong pretres en Ecosse.' And the postmaster's
daughter, taking up the same weapon, plied me, so to speak, with
the butt of it instead of the bayonet. We are a hopeful race, it
seems, and easily persuaded for our good. One cheerful
circumstance I note in these guerilla missions, that each side
relies on hell, and Protestant and Catholic alike address
themselves to a supposed misgiving in their adversary's heart. And
I call it cheerful, for faith is a more supporting quality than
imagination.
Here, as in Scotland, many peasant families boast a son in holy
orders. And here also, the young men have a tendency to emigrate.
It is certainly not poverty that drives them to the great cities or
across the seas, for many peasant families, I was told, have a
fortune of at least 40,000 francs. The lads go forth pricked with
the spirit of adventure and the desire to rise in life, and leave
their homespun elders grumbling and wondering over the event.
Once, at a village called Laussonne, I met one of these
disappointed parents: a drake who had fathered a wild swan and
seen it take wing and disappear. The wild swan in question was now
an apothecary in Brazil. He had flown by way of Bordeaux, and
first landed in America, bareheaded and barefoot, and with a single
halfpenny in his pocket.
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