This was not very encouraging, but we have learned to beware of other people’s opinions:  they often praise what is worthless, and pass over delights and treasures in absolute silence.

So, remembering this, we entered the hotel omnibus with our sketching materials and small cameras, and struggled up the hill to the railway station and the level of the huge viaduct.

On our way we passed the abode of our refined and interesting antiquarian.  He was standing at his door, the same patient look upon his beautiful face, the same resigned attitude.  He caught sight of us and woke up out of a reverie.  His spirit always seemed taking some far-off flight.

“Ces messieurs are not leaving?” he cried, for we passed slowly and close to him.  There was evidence of slight anxiety or disappointment in his tone; the crucifix yet hung on his walls, and H.C.’s mind still hovered in the balance.

“No,” we replied.  “We are going to Roscoff, and shall be back to-night.”

“Roscoff?  It is lovely,” he said.  “I know you will like it.  But it is very quiet, and only appeals to the artistic temperament.  You will see few shops there; no antiquarians; and the people are stupid.  Still, the place is remarkable.”

The omnibus passed on and we were soon steaming away from Morlaix.

It was a desperately slow train.  The surrounding country was not very interesting, but the journey, fortunately, was short.  As we passed the celebrated St. Pol de Leon on the way, we decided to take it first.  Roscoff was the terminus, and appeared like the ends of the earth at the very extreme point of land, jutting into the sea and looking out upon the English Channel.  If vision could have reached so far, we might have seen the opposite English coast, and peered right into Plymouth Sound; where, the last time that we climbed its heights straight from the hospitality of a delightful cruise in a man-of-war, the band of the Marine Artillery was ravishing all ears and discoursing sweet music in a manner that few bands could rival.

We approached St. Pol de Leon, which may be described as an ecclesiastical, almost a dead city.  But how glorious and interesting some of these dead cities are, with their silent streets and their remnants of the past!  The shadow of death seems upon them, and they impress you with a mute eloquence more thrilling and effective than the greatest oration ever listened to.

As we approached St. Pol, which lay half a mile or so from the railway, its churches and towers were so disposed that the place looked like one huge ecclesiastical building.  These stood out with wonderful effect and clearness against the background of the sky.