PROLOGUE xvii 



on desert sands. To-night the guns are 

 thundering, and with each striking hour 

 bleached desolation creeps further through the 

 land. . . . 



And lohen the end comes — as come it will 

 for some of us — can we relive our golden 

 days 7 lay hold upon reality f find simple y 

 kindly ways again ? Or have ive grown too 

 old under the heel of might, inured to pouter, to 

 speed, to all things obvious, tangible, moulded 

 by concrete fact — stunned — bludgeoned by 

 materialism f Must we pass hence only to 

 leave this brazen god of ugliness triumphant ? 



The pencilled sheets of foolscap still lie un- 

 touched upon my table. Doubtless this book 

 needs adequate apology. Yet shall it claim 

 but one excuse — its writers love of Brittany. 

 Because of this I may perhaps stir here 

 and there some slender cord of sympathy ; 

 make others love it too. 



To me this ivoidd be good, to thus find 



