among material ruins, but at Commana I was to see something sadder still, the ruins of a great genius chained by penury and circumstances to the rock of obscurity.
My friend the doctor was very glad to see me, and we spent a happy evening talking about Brittany, a subject always full of matters of discussion to her sons. In the course of conversation the doctor expressed great interest in a carpenter of the neighborhood, who, he told me, was gifted with an extraordinary turn for mechanics.
His rounds upon the morrow lying in the direction where his peasant genius lived, we agreed to go and see him the next morning.
The sun was just gilding the Black Range when we set out the purple moorland stretched on every side of us, dotted with black sheep under the charge of children, but there was not a trace around of trees, or any verdure. The air we breathed was fresh, pure, and exhilarating, the birds sang daily in the hidden valleys, the fragrance of some fields of flowering buckwheat, which lay also out of sight, perfumed the morning air. We walked on, chatting gaily, impregnated (if I may use the word) with the delicious freshness of so bright a morning.
When we came in sight of the little hill on which Jahona's house was built, the doctor paused and pointed it out to me. It was made out of a dovecote (a dovecote is a sort of stunted tower in Brittany) newly thatched, with windows broken through the walls at irregular intervals. My friend told me that Jahona's wife, who came of noble blood, had inherited this ruin, with half an acre of land attached to it, and that her husband had transformed it into a dwelling.
As we drew near we saw the master of the house at work before his door. My friend wished him good morning, and entered into conversation. While they were talking I took the opportunity of examining the work he was engaged upon. It was an oaken chest, very rudely executed, by no means corresponding to the idea I had formed of his workmanship. I expressed my disappointment to my friend in French, not supposing that Jahona knew any language except that of Brittany, but by his smile I saw I was understood.
"I do better than that sometimes, monsieur," he said. "But I cannot afford time over this common work, or my five little children would be crying for food. I have been two days already working over that chest, and one cannot get much buckwheat for three francs, you know."
"Are you paid no more for all this work?" I said.
"Those who have to pay always think that labor's dear," he answered, in the sententious manner very common among the peasants of Brittany.
"You must not judge Jahona by a thing like that," explained my friend. "Jahona when he pleases can work like the saints, both fast and well. He has carved nearly every crucifix in the surrounding parishes."
"Do you carve crucifixes too?" I asked the carpenter.
"When I have no oak chests in hand," he replied.
"That is a higher order of labor, surely that is better paid," I cried.
"Not much. I carve by the day's work generally. Sometimes I am paid by the piece — five francs a foot. Some curls want the spear and crown of thorns thrown in besides," replied Jahona.
At this moment a clear metallic sound came from the interior of the house, and was repeated seven times successively. I turned round in astonishment. "That is my clock, monsieur," said the carpenter.
"He made it himself, after studying over the old pendulum affair in my kitchen," said the doctor. "Come in and look at it."
Jahona pulled off his hat, with the politeness never wanting in a peasant of Brittany, and drew back, motioning us towards the door. We entered.
The wife was seated, rocking her baby's cradle, but busy with her spinning. As we came in she rose and bade us welcome, laying aside her distaff and pushing back her wheel. The doctor began talking to her about her children, while Jahona took me up to a sort of wooden coffin fixed up against the wall. It was his clock. He opened the tall door of the pine box, and I gave a cry of wonder, at the sight of the interior.
Having nothing fit to make use of in the construction of a clock, the poor fellow had employed every kind of strange material. Bits of iron, copper, and stone had been worked into his purpose. In the whole clock there were no two scraps of anything that could ever have been expected to come together. Everything had been intended for something else. The clock-face was a large slate. The figures, and some arabesques very well executed, had been scratched upon its surface. The striker, whose clear sound had attracted
