For if all the houses of the Grand’ Rue are not actually fifteenth century—­and they are not—­they all look of an age; they all belong to the same school of architecture, and the harmony of the whole street is perfect.  Looking upwards, the eye is delighted at the outlines of the gabled roofs that stand out so clearly and sharply against the background of the sky; and you return to it over and over again during your sojourn in Morlaix, and each time you gaze longer and think it more beautiful than before.

These old-world towns and streets are very refreshing to the spirit.  We grow weary of our modern towns, with their endless monotony and their utter absence of all taste and beauty.  Just as when sojourning in a country devoid of monuments and ruins, the mind at length absolutely hungers for some grand, ecclesiastical building, some glorious vestige of early ages; so when we have once grown familiar with mediaeval towns and outlines, it becomes an absolute necessity occasionally to run away from our prosy nineteenth century habitations, and refresh our spirit, and absorb into our inmost nature all these refining old-world charms.  It is an influence more easily felt than described; also, it does not appeal to all natures.  We can only understand Shakespeare by the Shakespeare that is within us—­an oft quoted saying but a very true one; and Pan might pipe for ever to one who has no music in his soul; and the rainbow might arch itself in vain to one who is colour-blind.

Morlaix also, as we have said, owes much to its situation.

Lying between three ravines, it is most romantically placed.  Its people are sheltered from many of the cruel winds of winter, and even the sturdy Bretons cannot be quite indifferent to the stern blast that comes from the East laden with ice and snow.

Not that the people of Morlaix look particularly robust, though we found them very civil and often very interesting.  We must pay for our privileges, and if a town is built in a hollow, and is sheltered from the east wind, the chances are that its climate will be enervating.  This, of course, has its drawbacks, and sets the seal of consumption on many a victim that might have escaped in higher latitudes.

One charming type we found in Morlaix, consisting of a family that ought to have lived in the middle ages, and been painted by Raphael, or have served as models for Fra Angelico’s angels.  Three generations.

We were climbing the Jacob’s ladder leading to the station one day, when we chanced upon an old man who sold antiquities.  We were first taken with his countenance.  It had honesty and integrity written upon it.  Had he been a German, living in Ober-Ammergau, he would certainly have been chosen for the chief character in the play—­a play, by the way, that has always seemed questionable, since the greatest and most momentous Drama creation ever witnessed appears too sacred a theme to be theatrically represented, even in a spirit of devotion.