Country life is, of course, far less dull than provincial town life; less unneighbourly, and less destitute of all the charities of existence. For one thing, nature is the eternal friend, benefactor, and instructor of man. The thousand vulgarities of towns are forgotten in the midst of her bounties. A man who lives in bucolic silence, watching the seasons and counting new-*born things, dreaming of oats, of crops, of fruit, is essentially the superior of his fellows who dwell amid the sordid details of small towns, commerce, and rivalries, the gossip and drivel which make a spurious animation in the circles of the provinces. There are diversities among the type hobereau (a kind of French squire), as among all other types in France and elsewhere. Many years ago I travelled through a charming south-western province, furnished amply with letters of introduction. I well remember the extraordinary contrast between two families of hobereaux I once visited. A relative of the small squire, who lived in a dull, quaint little town, drove me out to see her bucolic son-in-law and his bucolic parents. The family was described to me as "exceedingly rich." We entered a brilliant bit of park and avenue on a hot afternoon in July, drenched with the dews of heat, athirst from the dust of the broad, long white road. On the perron stood the young couple and their parents to receive us. The
