The other called it "the love-feast of Voltaire and the Vatican." Both were much more fluent about hunting and farming.
I asked if the hunting still went on in their part of the island.
"It has never stopped for a moment," he replied.
"No," added the other, "nor ever a dog poisoned.

They were poisoned, whole packs of them, in the papers, but not a dog really.

The stories were printed just to keep up the agitation, and the farmers winked at it so as not to be 'bothered.'" Both averred that they got their rents "fairly well," but both also said that they farmed much of their own land.

One, a wiry, energetic, elderly man, of a brisk presence and ruddy complexion, said he constantly went over to the markets in England.

"I go to Norwich," he said, "not to Liverpool.