yields to time.

On one of the islets is the tomb of Chateaubriand, who was born in St.
Malo and lived here many years. It was one of his last wishes to be
buried where the sea, for ever playing and plashing around him, would
chant him an everlasting requiem. Many will sympathise with the feeling.
No scene could be more in accordance with the solemnity of death, the
long waiting for the "eternal term;" more in unison with the pure spirit
that could write such a prose-poem as _Atala_.

Nothing could have been lovelier than the day of our arrival at St.
Malo; the special day of which I write; for St. Malo has seen our coming
and going many times and in all weathers.

The crossing had been calm as a lake. Even H.C., who would sooner brave
the tortures of a Spanish Inquisition than the ocean in its angry moods,
and who has occasionally landed after a rough passage in an expiring
condition: even H.C. was impatient to land and break his fast at the
liberal table of the Hotel de France--very liberal in comparison with
the Hotel Franklin. We had once dined at the table d'hote of the
Franklin, and found it a veritable Barmecide's feast, from which we got
up far more hungry than we had sat down; a display so mean that we soon
ceased to wonder that only two others graced the board with ourselves,
and they, though Frenchmen, strangers to the place. The Hotel de France
was very different from this; if it left something to be desired in the
way of refinement, it erred on the side of abundance.

Therefore, on landing this morning, we gave our lighter baggage in
charge of the porter of the hotel, who knew us well, and according to
his wont, gave us a friendly greeting. "Monsieur visite encore St.
Malo," said he, "et nous apporte le beau temps. Soyez le bienvenu!" This
was not in the least familiar--from a Frenchman.

[Illustration: ST. MALO.]

We went on to the custom-house, and as we had nothing to declare the
inspection was soon over. H.C. had left all his tea and cigars behind
him at the Waterloo Station, in a small hand-bag which he had put down
for a moment to record a sudden fine phrenzy of poetical inspiration.
Besides tea and cigars, the bag contained a copy of his beloved "Love
Lyrics," without which he never travels, and a bunch of lilies of the
valley, given him at the moment of leaving home by Lady Maria; an
amiable but aesthetical aunt, who lives on crystallised violets, and
spends her time in endeavouring to convert