Wal. How then, man?
Abbot. How many a poor soul would be lying--Ah, blessed thought!--
in Abraham's bosom; who must now toil on still in this vale of
tears!--Pardon this pathetic dew--I cannot but feel as a Churchman.
3d Count. Look at it in this way, Sir. There are too many of us--
too many--Where you have one job you have three workmen. Why, I
threw three hundred acres into pasture myself this year--it saves
money, and risk, and trouble, and tithes.
C. Wal. What would you say to the Princess, who talks of breaking
up all her parks to wheat next year?
3d Count. Ask her to take on the thirty families, who were just
going to tramp off those three hundred acres into the Rhine-land, if
she had not kept them in both senses this winter, and left them on
my hands--once beggars, always beggars.
C. Hugo. Well, I'm a practical man, and I say, the sharper the
famine, the higher are prices, and the higher I sell, the more I can
spend; so the money circulates, Sir, that's the word--like water--
sure to run downwards again; and so it's as broad as it's long; and
here's a health--if there was any beer--to the farmers' friends, 'A
bloody war and a wet harvest.
Pages:
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105