The object of this procession is a stake or bonfire that has been placed on the summit of one of the hills.  This is in communication with the steeple of the church by means of a long wire—­and the distance is considerable.  At a given signal a firework is launched from the steeple, runs along the wire, and sets light to the stake.  As soon as the flames burst forth there is a general discharge of musketry, drums in the fields beat loudly, the smoke of incense, mingling with the smoke of gunpowder, ascends heavenwards, and the priests sing what is called the “Hymn of the Holy Finger.”

Les Miraclou—­as those are called who have been miraculously cured the previous year by bathing in the water of the fountain, or touching the finger of St. John—­of course play an important part in the procession.

To-day it was our fate to see a very different but hardly less effective ceremony.  As we were sitting quietly near the beautiful gateway, the hills in front of us, contemplating the sylvan scene and waiting for our driver, suddenly a small procession appeared coming down the road that wound round the hill out into the world.  It was a funeral, and nothing could have been more striking than this concourse of priests and crosses and mourners, some carrying their sad burden, thrown out in conspicuous relief by the green hills and valleys around.

Mournfully and sadly the little group approached.  First the priests, then the sad burden, then the women, the chief mourners wearing long cloaks, with hoods thrown over their heads, which made them look like nuns, and followed by quite a large company of men walking bareheaded.

Absolute and solemn silence reigned everywhere, broken only by the measured tread of the men carrying the coffin, which grew more and more audible as they approached; that measured tread that is one of the saddest of sounds.  At the gate of the cemetery they paused a moment, then slowly defiled up the churchyard, and disappeared into the church; the chief mourner, who was the widow of the dead man, weeping silently but bitterly.

We were ready to leave, and when the last mourner had disappeared within the church, followed by some of the village people, we turned to our driver and gave him the signal for departure.  We left St. Pol very reluctantly.  There was an indescribable charm about it, as there is about certain places and certain people.  St. Thegonnec, Guimiliau—­as far as the villages were concerned, we were glad to turn our backs upon them; nothing attracted us; we had nothing in common with them; the charm was wanting.  But at St. Jean-du-Doigt it was the very opposite; we longed to take up a short abode there, and felt that the days would be well spent and full of happiness.  But time forbade the indulgence, as time generally forbids all such luxuries to the workers in the world.  Only those whose occupation in life is the pursuit of pleasure can, like Dr. Syntax, go off in search of the picturesque, and wander about at their own sweet desire like a will-o’-the-wisp.  Such luxuries were not ours; and so it came to pass that, very soon after we had seen the sad procession winding down the hill, we were winding up it; looking back with “long lingering gaze” at the lovely spot which was fast disappearing from view.