THE PEASANT OF BRITTANY. CHAPTER I. There is, in a wild and unfrequented part of Brittany, a small farm-house, which I was now led to visit with as much reverence as many a devout worshipper has felt, at the shrine of his saint. It is situated at the distance of about a league from the small town of Nozay, and is within sight of a solitary windmill on the hill beyond that place, called the _Moulin à vent de Bolhalard_. Around it are about thirty acres of arable land, sheltered by the slopes that sweep down towards it on three sides; but beyond that little patch of cultivation, the hills around are, as every one knows who has visited that part of France, covered with heath, which, on the table-land at the summit, ends in the sandy unproductive sort of track called _landes_. It is a bleak and desolate scene, and, even when the sun shines in all his summer brightness, its aspect is wild and solitary; but when, as is frequently the case, the sky above is covered with cold gray clouds, or when the chill easterly wind sweeps over the unprotected plains, there are few places that I know which offer an appearance of more cheerless dreariness than the farm of Dervais. Early one day in the beginning of the month of June, and in the year 1794, the old farmer, who at that time cultivated the little spot of productive land which I have mentioned, and fed his sheep upon the neighbouring heaths, stood before his door gazing up towards the sky, as if to ascertain what sort of weather was to predominate during the day. I may be permitted to describe him; for the name of La Brousse should live for ever, where honour, and good faith, and generous devotion, are valued amongst men. Like the generality of Breton peasants, he was tall, bony, and powerful, with long arms and muscular hands, which, even at that period of his life, would have performed many a feat of extraordinary strength. He must have been more than sixty years of age, and the long curling locks of white hair, which, like every Breton, he preserved with reverential care, hung down upon his shoulders, and over a forehead high and broad as that of Milton. Persons who had been accustomed to mark the features common to particular counties in England, would have taken him for a Cornish man, by the peculiar cast of his countenance; and it is more than probable that his blood was derived from the same stock. His eye was of a clear dark blue, beneath a marked overhanging eyebrow; and his long straight pose, and rounded chin, offered traces of beauty which had survived even the ruinous effects of time. His dress was simply that of a peasant of the province. The expression of his countenance at the time I speak of, was stern and melancholy. Well, indeed, might it be so; for, in the Vendean wars of the preceding year, his two sons, his only children, had fallen in fighting gallantly against the