As soon as the heat of the day had declined, having satisfied my
curiosity as to Boulogne, I called for my bill and my horse, intending
to get on to Montreuil, where I had fixed upon sleeping. My bill was
extravagant to a degree; a circumstance I imputed to the want of some
due attentions to Madame. These kind of people have always the revenge
in their own hands. As I did not see Mr. Parker, I know not whether to
recommend his inn or not. He has some excellent Burgundy, but the
charges are high, the attendance not good, and the situation in summer
close and stifling. Madame, however, is a very pretty woman, and seems a
very good-humoured one, if her expectations are answered. She is a true
French woman, however, and expects gallantry even from a weary
traveller.

I found the road improve much as I advanced; the country became more
enclosed, and bore a strong resemblance to the most cultivated parts of
England. The cherry trees standing in the midst of the corn had a very
pretty effect; the fields had the appearance of gardens, and some of the
gardens had the wildness of the field. The season was evidently more
advanced than in England; there were more fruits and flowers, and the
bloom was more bossy and luxuriant. Several smaller roads led from the
main road, and the spires of the village churches, as seen in the side
landscape, rising above the tops of the trees, invited the fancy to
combine some rural images, and weave itself at least an imaginary
Arcadia. The persons I met or overtook upon the road were not altogether
in unison with what I must call the romance of the scene. Every carter
drove his vehicle in a cocked-hat, and the women had all wooden shoes.
Boys and girls of twelve years old were in rags, which very ill covered
them. Nor was there any of the briskness visible on a high road in
England. A single cart, and a waggon, were all the vehicles that I saw
between Boulogne and Abbeville. In England, in the same space, I should
have seen a dozen, or score.

Not being pressed for time, the beauty of a scene at some little
distance from the road-side tempted me to enter into a bye-lane, and
take a nearer view of it. A village church, embosomed in a chesnut wood,
just rose above the trees on the top of a hill; the setting sun was on
its casements, and the foliage of the wood was burnished by the golden
reflection. The distant hum of the village green was just audible; but
not so the French horn, which echoed in