Page 259 of 896

But, there remained a broken country, bold and open, a little

village at the bottom of the hill, a broad sweep and rise beyond

it, a church-tower, a windmill, a forest for the chase, and a

crag with a fortress on it used as a prison. Round upon all these

darkening objects as the night drew on, the Marquis looked, with

the air of one who was coming near home.

The village had its one poor street, with its poor brewery, poor

tannery, poor tavern, poor stable-yard for relays of post-horses,

poor fountain, all usual poor appointments. It had its poor

people too. All its people were poor, and many of them were

sitting at their doors, shredding spare onions and the like for

supper, while many were at the fountain, washing leaves, and

grasses, and any such small yieldings of the earth that could be

eaten. Expressive signs of what made them poor, were not wanting;

the tax for the state, the tax for the church, the tax for the

lord, tax local and tax general, were to be paid here and to be

paid there, according to solemn inscription in the little

village, until the wonder was, that there was any village left

unswallowed.