The houses were usually composed of one room, where, near the open fire, and fixed against the wall, stands the bedstead or lit clos, of old oak, shut in by carved sliding panels, often bearing an inscription or some sacred symbol. The mattresses and feather-beds are so piled up, that there is hardly room to creep in. Before it is the big chest containing the family wardrobe, answering the double purpose of a seat and a step by which to ascend the lofty bed. Cupboards on each side often have wide shelves, where the children sleep. Settles and a long table complete the furniture; the latter often has little wells hollowed out in the top to hold the soup instead of plates. Over the table, suspended by pulleys, are two indispensable articles in a Breton house,—a large round basket to cover the bread, and a wooden frame to hold the spoons. Festoons of sausages, hams, candles, onions, horse-shoes, harness, and tools, all hang from the ceiling. The floor is of beaten earth. One narrow window lets in the light. There are no out-houses, and pigs and poultry mingle freely with the family.
The gardens are well kept, and produce quantities of fruit and vegetables. The chief food of the poorer class is bread or porridge of buckwheat, with cabbage soup, made by pouring hot water over cabbage leaves and adding a bit of butter.
They are a home-loving people, and pine like the Swiss, if forced to leave their native land. They are brave soldiers and good sailors. 'Their vices,' as a Breton writer says, 'are avarice, contempt for women, and drunkenness; their virtues, love of home and country, resignation to the will of God, loyalty to each other, and hospitality.' Their motto is, 'En tout chemin loyauté.'
They are very superstitious, and some of their customs are curious. At New Year pieces of bread and butter are thrown into the fountains, and from the way in which they swim the future is foretold. If the buttered side turns under, it forebodes death; if two pieces adhere together, it is a sign of sickness; and if a piece floats properly, it is an assurance of long life and prosperity.
Girls throw pins into the fountain of Saloun to tell, by their manner of sinking, when they will be married. If the pin goes down head-foremost, there is little hope; but, if the point goes first, it is a sure sign of being married that year.
Their veneration for healing-springs is very great, and, though at times forbidden by the Church, is still felt. Pounded snails, worn in a bag on the neck, is believed to be a cure for fever; and a certain holy bell rung over the head, a cure for head-ache. 'If we believe in that last remedy, what a ceaseless tingling that bell would keep up in America!' said Lavinia, when these facts were mentioned to her.
In some towns they have, in the cemetery, a bone-house or reliquary. It is the custom, after a certain time, to dig up the bones of the dead, and preserve the skulls in little square boxes like bird-houses, with a heart-shaped opening, to show the relic within. The names and dates of the deceased are inscribed outside.
Saint Ives or Yves is a favourite saint, and images of him are in all churches and over many doors. He was one of the remarkable characters of the thirteenth century. He studied law in Paris, and devoted his talents to defending the poor; hence, he was called 'the poor man's advocate:' and so great is the confidence placed in his justice, that, even now, when a debtor falsely denies his debt, a peasant will pay twenty sous for a mass to St. Ives, sure that the Saint will cause the faithless creditor to die within the year or pay up.
His truthfulness was such that he was called 'St. Yves de vérité.' He was the special patron of lawyers, but he does not seem to be their model.
The early monks taught the people to work, and their motto was 'The Cross and the plough, labour and prayer.' They introduced apples, now the principal fruit of Brittany. Much cider is made and drank; and in old times they got their wine from France in exchange for wax and honey, as they were famous bee-keepers. Great fields of buck-wheat still afford food for the 'yellow-breeched philosophers,' and in many cottage gardens a row of queerly shaped hives stand in sunny nooks.