The record-union., 1898-09-19

ing woods. There is. scarce a tree on
the upper level-a stunted pine, per-
haps here and there or half dozen
lady birches, mixed with thorn,
clustered round some menhir by the
yellow upland tarn. The keen sea wind
has torn and twisted the scanty trees
and blown their branches all one way.
The purple heather barely hides the
rock which pierces the sterile soil, as
a bony arm trays a worn-out garment
The ocean, the melancholy ocean OF
Celtic shore. bounds the horizon with
it's illimitable gray The Breton coast
near Treguier is the softest, the pref-
test, of these typical Celtic land
scapes. But even there the country
wears a barren grace. Yet what Nor
man pasture or Burgundy vineyard
can boast the strong attraction OF the
moors?
The same quality-neither rich nor
sound but infinitely sweet-clings about
the people. The men in the fields gaze
at you with stern dark faces in an
almost animal placidity. In Renan
youth they were still almost as wild
as their country, strange, rude men,
with flowing hair, wrapped up In goat
skins in winter time. The girls are
charming-it is difficult to say why
their slender and yet rough-hewn hg-
ureS have no more grace of curve than
| a thirteenth century church saint IN
her niche Their pale faces, with down.
dropped lids and delicate pointed ch1ns,
have very little bloom. In their black
dresses and white colts they have the
austere distinction, the demure reserve,
| of very young novices who renounce
| they know not what.
This Breton race, apparently SO Sc
we're, is one Of the most pleasure-loV-
| ing and one of the most garrulouS IN
| France; a very storehouSe of myth and
| legend, of song and story, of jest and
! gibe These melancholy men and maids,
visible emblems of renunciation, are
capable of mirth and wit and passion
| Fond of the glass, quick at repartee,
! they glory in the gift of the CAB, but
| only when the door is shut on
strangers. The extraordinary strength
! of idealism, the infinite delicacy OF
! sentiment, which form the inmost
quintessence of the Celt, impose on him
an imagt of seemliness, a pure de-
corum, to which he necessarily con-
forms the old Adam rebellious in his
heart. Reserve and passion, prudence
| and poetry, are equally inherent IN
| him. The very sinner who transgressed
most f1agrantly at last weeks wake OF
| Pardon" will show to-day in every
| act and every word serene tram
| quillity, a business of thought and
phrase which is no more hypocritcal
| than was the passionate fantasy OF his
falling-away.
Treguier is an ancient cathedral city
set high upon a hill at the confluence
| of two lovely rivers. A solitary place
whose quiet streets are bordered with
| blank convent walls over which the
garden tree tops wave at intervals. The
steep and silent city is crowned by a
! Gothic cathedral an admirable struct-
ure whose simple lines soar upward
| from a broad and massive base, ever
| slenderer, ever narrowing, till they
| terminate in a spire of extraordinary
| delicacy and loftiness, a landmark for
many miles around. Beautiful cloisters,
as old as the church itself, surround
the grassy churchyard. But the glory
of the cathedral is the large tomb of
| st. Ives which it contains. The patron
saint of Brittany. who is at once the
patron of Truth and the patron of
Rhetoric, is buried there.
Such is Treguier on the hill. Two
| steep streets connect this haunt of
peace with the seaport of FTreguier,
a busy place, yet opening quietly not
on the full sport and hurry of the
ocean, but on a land-locked estuary