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 "A Tale of Brittany" one is besieged by sensations from the first paragraph to the last; gray clouds, freezing rain, granite rocks, the smell of tar and salt air and steaming woolen and clay pipes, church bells for baptisms and weddings and deaths, the wayside calvaire, the summer flowers, the processions of girls in their white head-dresses, the lovers walking in the deep lanes, then the farewells, the mist and the rain again, the scream of gulls, hot liquor in the throat, cordage slipping through bleeding palms, the fishing, the voyage into the bleak north. And out of this saturation with raw sensations rises a sense of profound sympathy and intimate communion with the "soul" of Brittany and with the spirit of all sailors and of all wives and mothers and sweethearts who wait for ships that will never return from the immense and mournful monotony of the sea.

If I were to select from Loti's collection the six books which have impregnated my memory most indelibly with their color and fragrance I should probably choose "The Iceland Fisherman," "A Tale of Brittany," "A Tale of the Pyrenees," "Le Mariage de Loti," "Le Roman d'un Spahi" and "Madame Chrysanthème." Each of these is equipped with a sweetheart or so—poor little thing, and a sweetheart does unquestionably assist one's impressions and sensations to focus and compose themselves. But the enchantment of most of these tales is only very moderately dependent upon the erotic interest, unless one extends the term to include the sentiment that sailors feel for their mothers and mothers for their sons, and the bond of brotherhood, and the affection which greets the changing loveliness of the seasons, and piety toward the customs of one's ancestors and reverence for all