he place was full of their
fragrance: a fragrance that seemed so allied to the smell of the pine
wood in the timber yards.

The town is of great antiquity, and appears to have succeeded a Roman
Settlement. It is said to owe its name to St. Ernec, a Breton prince,
the son, says tradition, of Judicael, King of the Domnomee. This prince,
about the year 669, turned monk, and built himself a cell on the banks
of the Elorn, a river which divided in those days the sees of Leon and
Cornouaille. Where the cell was is now the village of St. Ernec, and a
chapel which preceded the church of the Recollets.

In time Landerneau became the chief town of the Vicomte of Leon; and was
raised to a Principality in 1572 in favour of Henri, Vicomte de Rohan
and his brother Rene, Lord of Soubise, who founded the dukedom of
Rohan-Chabot. It remained in possession of Lords of Landerneau until
the Revolution. Fontenelle pillaged the town in 1592, and in the
seventeenth century its famous castle was destroyed.

[Illustration: CALVARY, GUIMILIAU.]

"There will be noise in Landerneau," has become a Breton proverb,
employed whenever any social event is stirring up the populace. It owes
its origin to a bygone custom of the town, of serenading widows on the
evening of their second marriage, with drums, trumpets, kettles, and
every kind of unmusical instrument that could be pressed into the
service of the uproarious ceremony.

Of this we had no evidence. The town was quiet to the verge of deadly
dulness; if there were widows rash enough to contemplate a second
marriage, we knew nothing about it; they were discreet, and kept their
secret to themselves.

There are many monasteries and nunneries in the neighbourhood. Some are
in ruins; some have become destined to other purposes; and if their
walls could speak, probably would cry aloud: "To such base uses do we
come!" Sitting on the banks of the river, you watch its calm flowing
waters, and a vessel moored to the side, where a Breton woman is hanging
out clothes to dry, and a man on deck is lazily smoking his pipe. Behind
you is a timber yard, sending forth its strawberry-pine perfume. There
is always some attractions in a timber yard. Whether you will or not it
fascinates you; you enter for a moment, and stroll about through the
little alleys between the stacks, as numerous and complicated as the
twistings and turnings of a maze. You imagine yourself once more a boy
playing at hide-and-seek, and re