nto barracks; a lordly residence for the
simple paysans who swelled the ranks of the Breton regiment occupying it
at the time of which I write. They are said to be the best fighting
soldiers in France, these Bretons. Of a low order of development,
physically and mentally, they yet have a stubborn will which carries
them through impossible hardships. They may be conquered, but they never
yield.

The walk round the town upon the walls is extremely interesting.
Gradually making way, the scene changes like the shifting slides of a
panorama. Now the harbour lies before you, with its busy quays, its
docks, its small crowd of shipping; very crowded we have never seen it.
The old Castle rises majestically, looking all its three centuries of
age and royal dignity; its four towers unspoilt by restoration.

Onward still and the walls rise sheer out of the rocks and the water. At
certain tides, the sea dashes against them and breaks back upon itself
in froth and foam and angry boom. Sight and sound are a wonderful nerve
tonic. Countless rocks rise like small islands in every direction,
stretching far out to sea. On a calm day it is all lovely beyond the
power of words. The sky is blue and brilliant with sunshine. The sea
receives the dazzling rays and returns them in a myriad flashes. The
water seems to have as many tints as the rainbow, and they are as
changing and beautiful and intangible. A distant vessel, passing slowly
with all her sails set, almost becalmed, suggests a dreamy and
delicious existence that has not its rival. The coast of Normandy
stretches far out of sight. In the distance are the Channel Islands,
visible possibly on a clear day and with a strong glass. I know not how
that may be.

Turn your gaze, and you have St. Malo lying within its grey walls. The
sea on the right is all freedom and broad expanse; the town on the left
is cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd. Extremes meet here, as they often do
elsewhere.

It is a succession of slanting roofs, roof above roof, street beyond
street. Many of the houses are very old and form wonderful groups, full
of quaint gables and dormer windows, whilst the high roofs slant upwards
and fall away in picturesque outlines. An artist might work here for
years and still find fresh material to his hand. The streets are narrow,
steep and tortuous; the houses, crowding one upon another, are many
stories high; not a few seem ready to fall with age and decay. Only have
patience, and all