atened the world
with a second deluge. And we had replied that we had not seen Roscoff,
but hoped to do so the following day, wind and weather permitting. Not
that we had to reach Roscoff by water; but the elements can make
themselves quite as disagreeable on land as at sea: and like the Marines
might take for their motto, PER MARE, PER TERRAM.

The next day wind and weather were not permitting. Madame Hellard
clasped her hands with a favourite and pathetic gesture that would melt
the hardest heart and dispose it to grant the most outrageous request.
She bemoaned our fate and the uncertainty of the Breton climate.

"Enfin!" she concluded, "the climate of la Petite Bretagne is very much
the same as that of la Grande Bretagne, from all I have heard. You must
be accustomed to these variations. When the Saxons came over and
settled here centuries and centuries ago, and peopled our little
country, they brought their weather with them. It has never changed.
Like the Breton temperament, it is founded upon a rock--though I often
wish it were a little more pliable and responsive. Changes are good
sometimes. I am not of those who think what is must always be best. If I
were in your Parliament--but you don't have ladies in your Parliament,
though they seem to have a footing everywhere else--I should be a
Liberal; without going too far, bien-intendu; I am all for progress, but
with moderation."

To-day there seemed no prospect of even moderately fine weather, and we
could only improve our time by cultivating the beauties of Morlaix under
weeping skies.

Its quaint old streets certainly have an unmistakable, an undying charm,
which seems to be in touch with all seasons. Blue skies will light them
up and cause them to stand out with almost a joyous air; the declining
sun will illumine their latticed panes with a fire and flame mysterious
with the weight of generations; strong lights and shadows will be thrown
by gables and deep recesses, and sculptured porches; by the "aprons"
that protect the carven beams, and the eaves that stand out so strongly
in outline against the background of the far-off sky. And if those skies
are sad and sorrowful, immediately the quaint houses put on all the
dignity of age: from every gable end, from every lattice, every niche
and grotesque, the rain trickles and falls, and they, too, you would
say, are weeping for their lost youth.

But they are too old to do that. It is not the very aged who weep fo