Our life is one long poem.  In our youth
    We rise and sing a noble epic song,
    A trumpet note of sound both clear and strong,
    With idyls now and then too sweet for truth. 
    A lyric of lament, it swells along
    The tide of years, a protest ’gainst the wrong
    Of life, an unavailing cry for ruth,
    A wish to know the end—­the end forsooth! 
    ’Tis not on earth.  The end which makes or mars
    The song of life, we who sing seldom know. 
    That end is where, beyond the pale fair stars
    Which have looked down so calmly on our woe,
    Eternal music will set right the jars
    Of all that sounds so harsh and sad below.

JULIA KAVANAGH.

THE BRETONS AT HOME.

BY CHARLES W. WOOD, F.R.G.S., AUTHOR OF “IN SUNNY CLIMES,” “LETTERS FROM MAJORCA,” ETC.  ETC.

We were very sorry to leave Morlaix.  The old town had gained upon our affections.  We had found the Hotel d’Europe very comfortable, and Mr. and Mrs. Hellard kind and attentive beyond praise.  The indiscretions of that fatal night were more than effaced and forgotten.  Morlaix, at the time of the Fair, was a Pandemonium:  at the Regatta, if not exactly Paradise, it was at least very lively and amusing; whilst, when neither Fair nor Regatta was in question, Morlaix was full of the charm of repose; a sleepy atmosphere that accorded well with its old-world outlines.

[Illustration:  FISHWOMEN, BRITTANY.]

Not least was our regret at saying good-bye to Catherine.  She was an original character, who had much amused and entertained us.  There was a vein of humour in her composition which the slightest touch brought to the surface.  The solemnity of her features never relaxed, and whilst she made others laugh, and laugh again, her own face would invariably be grave as a judge’s.  It was also a pleasure—­in these days of incapacity—­to meet with a woman who managed the affairs of her little world with all the discretion of a Prime Minister.

“Ces messieurs are going to Quimper,” she exclaimed that last morning.  We were alone in the dining-room, taking an early breakfast.  Our small side-table faced the end window, and we looked upon the old square, and the canal, where a long row of women were already washing, beating, rinsing their linen, their white caps conspicuous, their voices raised in laughter that rippled down the troubled waters.  It was a lively scene; very picturesque; very suited to the old town.

“Ces messieurs are going to Quimper,” said Catherine, speaking the name in the very italics of scorn.  “They would do much better to remain in Morlaix, where at least there is a good hotel, and a Catherine who is ready to serve them night and day.  But human nature is curious and must see everything.  One house is like another; one street like another; the sea coast is the same everywhere; the same water, the same air, the same sky; but just because one shore is a bay and the other a point, because one coast is flat and the other has cliffs, mankind must rush about and call it seeing the world.”