ushed the driver and saw justice done.

Exhausted but triumphant, the three at length found themselves rolling
slowly towards Morlaix through a green and blooming country, so unlike
the New England they had left behind, that they rejoiced like
butterflies in the sunshine.

II.

_BRITTANY._

After a late dinner, at which their appetites were pretty effectually
taken away by seeing dishes of snails passed round and eaten like nuts,
with large pins to pick out the squirming meat; a night's rest somewhat
disturbed by the incessant clatter of _sabots_ in the market-place, and
a breakfast rendered merry by being served by a _garcon_ whom Dickens
would have immortalised, our travellers went on to Caulnes-Dinan.

Here began their adventures, properly speaking. They were obliged to
drive fourteen miles to Dinan in a ram-shackle carriage drawn by three
fierce little horses, with their tails done up in braided chignons, and
driven by a humpback. This elegant equipage was likewise occupied by a
sleepy old priest, who smoked his pipe without stopping the whole way;
also by a large, loquacious, beery man, who talked incessantly,
informing the company that he was a friend of Victor Hugo, a child of
nature aged sixty, and obliged to drink much ale because it went to his
head and gave him commercial ideas.

If it had given him no others it would have done well; but, after each
draught, and he took many, this child of nature became so friendly that
even the free and easy Americans were abashed. Matilda quailed before
the languishing glances he gave her, and tied her head up like a bundle
in a thick veil. The scandalised Lavinia, informing him that she did
not understand French, assumed the demeanour of a griffin, and glared
stonily into space, when she was not dislocating her neck trying to see
if the top-heavy luggage had not tumbled off behind.

Poor Amanda was thus left a prey to the beery one; for, having at first
courteously responded to his paternal remarks and expressed an interest
in the state of France, she could not drop the conversation all at once,
even when the friend of Victor Hugo became so disagreeable that it is to
be hoped the poet has not many such. He recited poems, he sung songs, he
made tender confidences, and finished by pressing the hand of
Mademoiselle to his lips. On being told that such demonstrations were
not permitted to strangers in America, he beat his breast and cried
out, 'My God, so beaut