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 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.