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policeman. There are no policemen There is a garde champêtre, who takes a walk round the woods and fields now and then to see if mischievous boys are not breaking the trees or damaging the crops. The garde champêtre also discharges the functions of town crier, and is only paid £20 a year for both positions. There are no beggars in the commune. Occasionally a license beggar will pass through when on tour, but he must not stop without permission of the maire. I should also add that there are no drunkards; a drunkard would be as great a phenomenon in the commune as a pauper. Not that the people don't drink, or because there are no public houses. On the contrary, every one drinks. Teetotalism is unknown. And there is no limit to the number of publ c houses which may be opened. The only formality required is to pay a tax of 88. a year-just as if the business were in dealing in grain or in cloth. The system is complete local option, Lu in a way which Str Wilfrid Lawson would not like. Yet there is no drunkenness. People drink rationally and in moderation, and do not get drunk.

Our commune produces many things, but children is not its strong point. You will see many children in the fields, but they are not natives. They are boarded-out pauper children from the big cities. There are several reasons for this paucity of children. Many of the young men who go away to serve their three years in the army never return, but stay in the large towns. Then large families are discouraged. When one dies, his property has to be divided equally between his offspring, and the more children there are, the smaller must become the plots. And the smaller the plots. the less the comfort. It is considered an ideal condition of things in the village for every couple to have a couple of children, and it is not thought creditable to have more. I discussed the population problem with the octogenarian village midwife, whose acquaint ance with the people was extensive and peculiar, and who ought to be an

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Equality and fraternity are more than mere empty words in our village. Everybody salutes everybody else, not as a mark of deference or inferiority, but as a sign of respect. Master and laborer appear to be on the most fraternal terms. All members of a household take their meals at the same table-the master and the mistress. the sons and the daughters, the servants and the boarded-out children. children are castaways-orphans or foundlings from the cities-but in the matter of food they are placed on an absolute equality with other members of the family. The State pays the peasant to keep these children until they are twelve, after which the employer must feed them and also pay a little for their labor. After thirteen they become hired servants. Many of the children are required to herd the cattle and the geese. There are no fences. Fences would be expensive to erect, and they would likewise occupy land which could be more profitably utilized in growing crops. So it is found cheaper to employ children— especially when the children are of an age that the State pays for their maintenance.

The houses in the village are all constructed on the same system, although they may vary in size. Some are thatched, others tiled, and a few slated. There are some roofed with the flat stones which are used for the walls. Besides the peculiar formation of the house, and the combination of cow-shed, stable, granary, and dwelling-house, another striking feature is the scarcity of windows. This is easily accounted for by the fact that the windows are taxed, and the French peasant is enlightened enough with regard to his own material interests to

live in the dark rather than pay more taxes than he can help. There are little openings near the eaves of the houses which look like miniature windows, but they are only the ventilation holes of the granary, and are overlooked by the tax-collector. Let us enter one of these peasant-proprietors' houses. The door opens right into the room. There is no superfluous lobby or hall. As the door is generally left open to assist the only window in lighting the room, it is sometimes made of two flaps. The lower one is kept shut to exclude the hens, and the other half left open to admit the light. The room is a large composite compartment, inasmuch as it serves as kitchen, dining-room, parlor, and bedroom. Frequently there is no other bedroom. Two or more beds with tent like coverings stuck in the corners, two huge wardrobes with elephant feet, a table, and a few wooden chairs constitute the whole of the furniture. The floor is of stone. There is an enormous open fireplace and, in the larger houses, a small charcoal stove for cooking. The cooking utensils and the dishes are stowed away in one of the elephantine wardrobes, which serves as a larder. There are no ornaments beyond some hams and bacon dangling from the roof, a portrait of the pope or the president, cheese suspended in a cage for drying, and the colored cal endar of the Petit Journal. If the family are numerous, a small dark bedroom is found in the rear of the house, along with a small, dark kitchen. Next door is the cow-shed, and stable, or both. If there is a hired laborer employed on the farm, he sleeps in this place. A corner is partitioned off for the hens, the ducks, and the geese, and a small hole left in the wall as an entrance for them. It is not every farmer who can afford a cart-shed, but if there is a cart-shed it adjoins the dwelling house on the other side. Over all is the granary. The arrangement of most farmers' houses in this part of the Côte d'Or is on the same lines.

So much for the general appearance

and character of our village commune. Let us consider some aspects of its life more closely. That the standard of education is not high will readily be understood. Most of the people can read; some of the peasants' sons have been to college; but education is not too highly appraised. There is a communal school for boys, where elementary subjects are taught. The rules for attendance are not very rigid. The girls are taught at a school conducted by nuns. There is no religious instruction, as we understand it, in the boys' school, but the pupils receive moral training, and are taught their duty to their parents, to the community, and to God. There is a small school library consisting mainly of works of travel and history. The mâitre d'école is, as is usually the case in country districts, secretary to the communal council. He is the registrar of births and deaths, and keeps the cadastre. The mairie consists of a small room over the school. After the church, the schoolhouse is the most conspicuous and important building in the commune. The church, too, is communal property, and is kept in repair at the public expense.

All the people are ardent worshippers. On Sunday morning they turn out, old and young, the strong and the halt, dressed in their best, to attend church. Only "works of necessity and mercy" keep them at home. The attendance at early morning mass during the week is limited to the elderly women-the less active members of the community. The curé is very severe, but he has to make the spiritual side of things fit in with mundane interests, which are very strong at certain seasons of the year. For instance, he cuts the sermon and the service short during hay-making and harvest, so that the people may work. Unless he were accommodating in this respect, it is possible that his worshippers would diminish. On the other hand, he doesn't encourage such frivolities dancing. If any of his enfants de Marie dance at the village fête they can sing no longer in the choir, and

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their names 'are removed from the tableau of the congregation. He is a severe moral censor, Monsieur le Curé. There is no record of illegitimacy at the mairie, except of one offender, who is ostracized, and lives in an isolated house near a wood-looked down upon as much as Scarlet Woman ever was under the sternest Puritanism.

Our little community require no recreation to speak of, and they do not miss the means for intellectual enjoyment. The men pass the evenings, when they are not at work, in the auberge, where they play cards, dominoes, or bagatelle. The women stay at home and work. The great recreation of the year is the village fête. Every village has its annual fête, which may last two, three, or more days. There are travelling shows and the usual accompaniments, but the chief attraction is the dancing and the music. The villagers not only attend their own fête every year, but every other one in the neighborhood.

We have seen the simple and somewhat primitive domestic arrangements of the people. Let us penetrate a little further into the internal secrets of the ménage. What are their staple articles of food? Breakfast usually consists of soup made up largely with potatoes and bacon, and served out of a large tureen to all members of the family and servants sitting round a plain deal table. Potatoes and bacon, boiled vegetables-a sort of dry Irish stew-is the usual dinner, varied with substantial pancakes-baked with fat -and boiled cabbage. For supper there is more soup, with cream cheese, coffee, and salad. Bread is eaten with all meals, and salad, peas, and beans are common dishes. Occasionally maize takes the place of the soup, and tame rabbits are not unusual delicacies. Not a great deal of milk is consumed, and when eggs are eaten they are boiled hard. The drink is winevin ordinaire-which every one has. We have not mentioned the pot au feu; it is here, of course, but as meat is not greatly used except on Sundays--when the favorite meat is boiled beef and

veal, mutton being too dear-the pot au feu is not so great an institution as in towns. In the season fruit is always on the table. Only fowls which are unsalable find their way to the family pot. At times they kill the fatted calf-on the village fête day, or when the thrashing machine comes round, when all work together and entertain each other on a generous scale. It will be seen that the peasants grow much of their articles of food, and they are to a large extent vegetarians.

The commune is, to a great extent, a self-contained community. The people aim at selling as much as possible and buying nothing. The actual condition of exchange is opposed to the political economic theory, that selling should be accompanied with an equivalent amount of buying. The aim of our peasants is to have exports, but no imports, and their resourcefulness in trying to supply all their own needs is wonderful. In involves a great waste of labor and a lack of economic methods in production; but labor is cheap, and the peasants would rather work twelve hours a day than eight. They grow sufficient wheat for their own consumption, and may have a surplus to sell. They send the corn to the mill, and for a small charge have it turned into flour. Many of them make their own bread in a primitive oven in a small, conical-shaped building attached to the dwelling house. The oven is filled with brushwood, which is burned until it is turned into charcoal. It is then raked out and the dough baked on the hot stones. The small charcoal is not lost; having served to bake the bread, it then does duty to light the kitchen fire. Besides wheat, the crops grown are oats, barley, peas, beans, colza, carrots (for cattle), beet, mangolds, hemp, and lint. There is enough in summer and winter for all the live stock on the farms. Few articles of food are bought.

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there is only one class in our French
commune-a fact which has a material
bearing upon the social economy of the
community. Every inhabitant of the
commune is a proprietor of something,
and all are bent on saving; yet, with
all their individualism, they combine
for common and mutual interest. This
is illustrated by the organization of the
syndicate for buying at wholesale
prices. They unite for the cultivation
of the soil, lending each other horses,
and making up teams. Every com-
mune has a field which
property, and where, on payment of a
trifling fee, animals graze. After the
harvest all the fields become common
property, and the gros bétail and the
other bétail are allowed to roam at

is common

ning, as is found amongst the Highland cottars and the Irish peasants. The implements of husbandry are not of the latest pattern; some of these, too, are of home manufacture. Parsimony stands in the way of agricultural progress, and the ultimate benefit which would result from using artificial fertilizers to strengthen the soil in the properties which it lacks, in renewing seed, and in the use of laborsaving and improved implements, is not realized. Such implements, seed, etc., as are recognized as necessary are bought at wholesale prices through the medium of the agricultural syndicate, which represents several communes. Fuel is cheap. It consists of wood. The neighboring woods are continually being thinned of their undergrowths, large. and the trees are cut down every The cultivateur in our commune is twelve years. Light is an expensive item. Petroleum costs 8d. per litre, candles nearly 2d. each, and bad matches are 1d. per 100. Other things which are dear, owing to protection, are sugar, which is 6d. per pound, salt 114d. per pound, coffee 2s. 6d. per pound; needles, thread, and, indeed, most manufactured articles, are dearer than in England. Clothing is about the same price as in an English vil lage, only the quality is inferior. Almost all the ordinary articles of food are cheap; eggs are 1⁄2d. each; butter is 6d. per pound; a chicken is 10d. or 18.; beef is 8d. The peasants cure their own bacon. All vegetables and fruit are remarkably cheap. On the whole, necessaries are much cheaper in the French commune than in an English rural parish. A comparison is not easy, as the conditions are entirely different. The French peasant has an independent means of existence. He owns the soil he tills. If he employs laborers they, at least, will own a house and garden, and hope to own a plot. The English villager is either a small tradesman or a laborer. A garden which he cultivates but does not own is, as a rule, the extent of his possessions. There are two classes in an English village, and these may be subdivided into various religious sects:

better at buying than selling. He
sells all his surplus crops, fruit and
vegetables. The poultry are a source
of considerable profit, and are sold, to-
gether with eggs and butter, to travel-
ling dealers, who collect for the mar-
ket. The geese, which live mainly on
the roadsides and in the fields until
they are fattened for Christmas, are a
much-valued asset. The cruel system
is adopted of plucking the fine down
off their necks in summer in order to
sell it. The commercial transaction
which gives the peasant most anxiety
is the disposal of his gros bétail. He
looks to his annual sale of stock as his
main source of net gain, and the fewer
he has to sell the more eager he is to
make a good deal. He visits fairs just
to gauge prices. Then he will take his
stock with him, but will not accept
first offers. The better the first offers
are the less likely he is to accept them.
He hopes to get more, and after sev-
eral visits to other fairs, which may
involve an expenditure of forty francs,
he congratulates himself on his busi-
ness acumen if he finally disposes of
his animal at ten francs more than the
original offer, and regards it
much more in his pocket.

as So

There is one thing which seriously affects the peasant's pocket, and about which he is always grumbling-the

heavy taxation he is called' upon to pay. He pays all round-for his land, his house, including the windows (if any), his goods and chattels, and everything else; and on the côté personnel he pays for the privilege of existing as a Frenchman, and thereby being able to pay all the other impositions. If he is incapacitated for military service by physical infirmities he pays a special tax by way of a fine for being a useless citizen. The distribution of the budget between Commune, Department, and State is finally settled by the prefectorial authorities, and every year a précepteur, representing the ministry of finance, visits each commune to fix the amount of every one's share. He is assisted by répartiteurs, some of whom are selected from outside the commune, who tell him how many new houses have been built, report the increase of stock, and generally present an inventory of every one's condition. The only tax which the commune regulates itself is the prestation. Every man between eighteen and sixty years must contribute towards the maintenance of the local roads according to his ability, either by his own labor and the use of his horses, or he has to pay on a graduated scale to have the work done. On the whole, these Bourgignon peasants, while they live in a somewhat primitive way, cultivate the land with old-fashioned implements, eat plain fare, and lead a simple life, are nevertheless eminently contented, and have no higher ambition than to gather in francs which they never spend. As the curé said to me-though he was not an Irishman: Notre paysan travail toute sa vie pour avoir de quoi manger après sa mort.

ROBERT DONALD.

From Blackwood's Magazine. RAB VINCH'S WIFE. The chill October dusk swept down upon the village, as it lay sheltered against a red-breasted Devonshire hill,

at the foot of which, where the river meandered brown-faced and silent out among the meadows, stood Rab Vinch's cottage. The firelight crept across the threshold, throwing shadows by the way on the whitewashed walls of the small kitchen, and outlining Rab's harsh passionate features as he sat and stared down on the flames. A certain peaceful quiet which reigned in the room-for Rab's wife, who was preparing the evening meal, moved softly -was broken by the sound of footsteps, and with a brief knock a man entered. "They've brought it in murder agin lame Tom," he cried excitedly.

Rab shifted back his chair, and his face grew grey beneath his tanned skin.

"An' tha squoire ain't done nort!" he exclaimed.

"Eh? tha squoire," repeated the man, turning towards him; but a sudden movement on the part of the woman prevented him from seeing Rab. “It 'pears," he continued, "thet inter tha Sizes tha squoire bain't no more than ony tother man; tho' ha did git a speshil doctor down from Lonnon, costing pounds an' pounds, jest tu show thet lame Tom wezn't fixed tu hiz chump1 tha zame ez moast folk; but tha jidge wez vor hanging, jidges baing paid vor zich, zo hanging it's ta ba; ony down in tha vullage uz reckons ther wez more than wan pusson mixed up in that ther murder."

"Down in tha vullage they ba mazing clivar, no doubt," the woman answered scornfully; "but tha law ain't no vule to ba a-hanging o' hinnocent folk."

The man moved a step nearer, and laid his hand upon her arm.

"Thet ba jest wher 'ee ba wrong. Zusan Vinch," he said. "I zeed thickey corpse a vull dree hours a-vour tha perlice iver clapped eyes on it, an' twez riglar ringed round wi' fut-marks thet wez niver made by ony boot o' lame Tom's; eh, an' if it had not rained thet powerful spirited, tha perlice wid o' zeen 'em themzulves, blind ez they ba. An' my wife hur zed ta me a skaur o'

1 Off the chump-not quite in his right mind.

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