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Updated: May 13, 2025
P. as an antidote against the fog. Mem. He refused it. The hither horse greased in the off-pastern of the hind leg. Arrived at Samers. Mem. This last was a post and a half, i.e. three leagues, or nine English miles. The day clears up. A fine champaign country, well stored with corn. The postillion says his prayers in passing by a wooden crucifix upon the road. Mem.
Here he passes the night, in order to defend his flock from the wolves, which are sometimes, especially in winter, very bold and desperate. Two days ago we made an excursion with Mrs. B and Capt. L to the village of Samers, on the Paris road, about three leagues from Boulogne. Here is a venerable abbey of Benedictines, well endowed, with large agreeable gardens prettily laid out.
We dined at Samers, and there had the first specimen of a French dinner (as at Calais we had lodged at an hotel, which is kept by an Englishman, and where every thing was
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