passengers.

After the long night-passage it is delightful to steam into the harbour
of St. Malo. If the sea has been rough and unkindly, you at once pass
from Purgatory to Paradise, with a relief those will understand who have
experienced it. The scene is very charming. The coast, broken and
undulating, is rich and fertile; very often hazy and dreamy; the
landscape is veiled by a purple mist which reminds one very much of the
Irish lakes and mountains.

Across the water lies Dinard, with its lovely views, its hilly
thoroughfares, its English colony and its French patois. But the boat,
turning the point, steams up the harbour and Dinard falls away. St. Malo
lies ahead on the left, enclosed in its ancient grey walls, which
encircle it like a belt; and on the right, farther away, rise the towers
and steeples of St. Servan, also of ancient celebrity.

On the particular morning of which I write, as we steamed up the harbour
towards our moorings, the quays looked gay and lively, the town very
picturesque. It is so in truth, though some of its picturesqueness is
the result of antiquity, dirt and dilapidation. But the fresh green
trees lining the quay looked bright and youthful; a contrast with the
ancient grey walls that formed their background. Vessels were loading
and unloading, people hurried to and fro; many had evidently come down
to see the boat in, and not a few were unmistakably English.

Here and there in the grey walls were the grand imposing gateways of the
town. Above the walls rose the quaint houses, roof above roof, gable
beside gable, tier beyond tier.