rcasses of the ichthyosaurus and pteropod, and
did the terror of men hear the sound of their feet in the tall grass and
the wind howl when their voices filled the caves? Are we not, moreover,
in the land of fairies, in the home of the Knights of the Round Table
and of Merlin, in the mythological birthplace of vanished epopees?
These, no doubt, revealed something of the old worlds which have become
mythical, and told something of the cities that were swallowed up, of Is
and Herbadilla, splendid and barbaric places, filled with the loves of
their bewitching queens, but now doubly wiped out, first, by the ocean
which has obliterated them and then by religion, which has cursed their
memory.

There is much to be said on this subject. And, indeed, what is there on
which much cannot be said? It might perhaps be Landivisian, for even the
most prolix man is obliged to be concise in his remarks, when there is a
lack of matter. I have noticed that good places are usually the ugliest
ones. They are like virtuous women; one respects them, but one passes on
in search of others. Here, surely, is the most productive spot of all
Brittany; the peasants are not as poor as elsewhere, the fields are
properly cultivated, the colza is superb, the roads are in good
condition, and it is frightfully dreary.

Cabbages, turnips, beets and an enormous quantity of potatoes, all
enclosed by ditches, cover the entire country from Saint Pol de Leon to
Roscoff. They are forwarded to Brest, Rennes, and even to Havre; it is
the industry of the place, and a large business is done with them.

Roscoff has a slimy beach and a narrow bay, and the surrounding sea is
sprinkled with tiny black islands that rise like the backs of so many
turtles.

The environs of Saint Pol are dreary and cheerless. The bleak tint of
the flats mingles without transition with the paleness of the sky, and
the short perspective has no large lines in its proportions, nor change
of colour on the edges. Here and there, while strolling through the
fields, you may come across some silent farm behind a grey stone wall,
an abandoned manor deserted by its owners. In the yard the pigs are
sleeping on the manure heap and the chickens are pecking at the grass
that grows among the loose stones; the sculptured shield above the door
has worn away under the action of rain and atmosphere. The rooms are
empty and are used for storage purposes; the plaster on the ceiling is
peeling off, and so are