diff options
| author | www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org> | 2026-07-30 20:05:35 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org> | 2026-07-30 20:05:35 -0700 |
| commit | 2747102d0978380063129d2df2d33fb52298e387 (patch) | |
| tree | 4b8ad0932b3e6a796626d9ad96f8d0bcf8ad6bc2 /79240-h | |
Diffstat (limited to '79240-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | 79240-h/79240-h.htm | 5339 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 79240-h/images/img-cover.jpg | bin | 0 -> 395433 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 79240-h/images/img-front.jpg | bin | 0 -> 208719 bytes |
3 files changed, 5339 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/79240-h/79240-h.htm b/79240-h/79240-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a0e594d --- /dev/null +++ b/79240-h/79240-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5339 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> + +<head> + +<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + +<link rel="icon" href="images/img-cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + +<meta charset="utf-8"> + +<title> +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Stray Leaves, by Alex. MacDonald +</title> + +<style> +body { color: black; + background: white; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +p {text-indent: 4% } /* 1.5em */ + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.t1 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 200%; + text-align: center } + +p.t2 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 150%; + text-align: center } + +p.t2b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 150%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +p.t3 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 100%; + text-align: center } + +p.t3b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 100%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +p.t4 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + text-align: center } + +p.t4b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +p.t5 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 60%; + text-align: center } + +h1 { text-align: center } +h2 { text-align: center } +h3 { text-align: center } +h4 { text-align: center } +h5 { text-align: center } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; } + +p.thought {text-indent: 0% ; + letter-spacing: 2em ; + text-align: center } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +p.footnote {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +.smcap { font-variant: small-caps } + +p.transnote {text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 5% ; + margin-right: 5% } + +p.intro {font-size: 90% ; + text-indent: -5% ; + margin-left: 5% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +p.quote {text-indent: 4% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +p.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +p.capcenter { margin-left: 0; + margin-right: 0 ; + margin-bottom: .5% ; + margin-top: 0; + font-weight: normal; + float: none ; + clear: both ; + text-indent: 0%; + text-align: center } + +img.imgcenter { margin-left: auto; + margin-bottom: 0; + margin-top: 1%; + margin-right: auto; } + +</style> + +</head> + + +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79240 ***</div> + + +<h1> +<br><br> + STRAY LEAVES<br> +</h1> + +<p class="t3"> + <i>OR</i><br> +</p> + +<p class="t2"> + TRACES of TRAVEL<br> +</p> + +<p><br><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + BY<br> + RT. REV. ALEX. MacDONALD, D.D.<br> + BISHOP OF VICTORIA, B. C.<br> +</p> + +<p><br><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + NEW YORK<br> + CHRISTIAN PRESS ASSOCIATION<br> +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p class="t4"> + SOLD FOR THE PROPAGATION OF THE FAITH<br> + PRICE, $1.00.<br> +</p> + +<p><br><br></p> + +<p class="t4"> + COPYRIGHT<br> + BY<br> + CHRISTIAN PRESS ASSOCIATION<br> + PUBLISHING CO.<br> + 1914<br> +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p class="t3b"> + CONTENTS<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p class="noindent"> + <a href="#chap01">THE SOUND OF ANOTHER SEA</a><br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> + <a href="#chap02">THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM</a><br> + <a href="#chap0201">On the misty Atlantic</a><br> + <a href="#chap0202">London and Paris</a><br> + <a href="#chap0203">Paray le Monial</a><br> + <a href="#chap0204">Geneva, Berne, Interlaken</a><br> + <a href="#chap0205">Milan and Venice</a><br> + <a href="#chap0205">Rome</a><br> + <a href="#chap0207">Florence and Genoa</a><br> + <a href="#chap0208">Lourdes</a><br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> + <a href="#chap03">JOTTINGS OF A TRIP IN SCOTLAND</a><br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> + <a href="#chap04">ROME—A CHRISTMAS REMINISCENCE</a><br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> + <a href="#chap05">THE ROSES OF ASSISI</a><br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> + <a href="#chap06">FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES</a><br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> + <a href="#chap07">FROM NAPLES TO CAIRO</a><br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> + <a href="#chap08">THROUGH SPAIN</a><br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> + <a href="#chap09">LOURDES REVISITED</a><br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> + <a href="#chap10">A FEW MORE STRAY LEAVES AND TRACES</a><br> +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + TO<br> + MY FELLOW PILGRIMS.<br> +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> +<a id="chap01"></a> + THE SOUND OF ANOTHER SEA<br> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Breaks upon mine ear<br> + The sound of another sea,<br> + Linking far with near—<br> + That far how near to me!<br> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Echoes out of the past.<br> + Wave-sounds from the shore,<br> + Woven in dreams at last<br> + Of days that are no more;<br> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Days that ebbed away<br> + By the side of another sea,<br> + When life was young and gay,<br> + And all its ways were free.<br> + —Victoria, B. C, January 1, 1910.<br> +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap02"></a></p> + +<h2> +THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM +</h2> + +<p><br><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> +WEDNESDAY, JUNE 2, 1900 +</p> + +<p> +We leave Montreal in a great downpour +of rain—a perfect deluge. In spite +of the rain, there are many gathered +on the pier to see us off. There is mutual +waving of handkerchiefs, and exchange of +farewells. The rain descends in torrents, type and +token of God's manifold blessings, so at least +we pilgrims are fain to look upon it. As our +ship frees herself from her moorings, and +glides into the stream, one fond pilgrim is +overheard remarking that Montreal is weeping +over our departure. And such copious tears as +they are, too! +</p> + +<p> +Last evening at eight, we all met at the +Cathedral, St. James's, to assist at Pontifical +Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament. The +great church, modelled on St. Peter's at +Rome—one-half of its length and one-eighth of its +cubic contents—was thronged. The Archbishop +gave the Benediction, and afterwards +from his throne addressed the pilgrims in +French. He looked every inch of him a +Bishop, and spoke with great dignity and +sweetness, in a rich, clear voice. He seems +well fitted to rule the Church of God in Mary's +City—the great Catholic city of Montreal, +which, with its grand churches, its splendid +educational and charitable institutions, makes +the pilgrim prouder of his Faith and of his +country. +</p> + +<p> +We reach Quebec at 7 p.m. Carriages—cabs, +caleches, and vehicles of all sorts—are in +readiness to convey the pilgrim party to the +Chapel of the Ursulines. Here for the first +time in Canada Mass was offered in honour of +the Sacred Heart. The Ursulines of Quebec +were founded by the Blessed Mary of the +Incarnation—the first religious foundation in +Canada. They are a cloistered Order. From +behind their gratings the nuns sing, in their +sweet voices, the Benediction Service, which is +preceded by a stirring address in French to the +pilgrims. At nine we are back on board. +There are ringing cheers from the shore, and +hearty cries of bon voyage. On the ship, many +of the pilgrims join in singing a French +chanson, with its lively chorus, "Bon soir, mes +amis, bon soir!" Scarcely has the last note +died away when the ship's bugler breaks out in +the familiar strains of Auld Lang Syne. We +slip our moorings, and are off. +</p> + +<p> +Down the river we glide swiftly in the +stillness of the night. On either bank is a fine +stretch of fertile land studded with picturesque +villages, and dotted with the houses of les +habitants. Now it lies as if asleep, wrapped +in the mantle of night. We see but in shadowy +outline the Laurentian hills, rising out of the +darkness. What a majestic river is this +St. Lawrence! There is nothing like it in +America—in all the wide world. The scenery on +the Hudson is very picturesque in places, and +somewhat more varied, perhaps. But one +misses there the fine expanse of open country, +with its setting of mountains, and the river +itself lacks the breadth and grandeur of the +St. Lawrence. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +PENTECOST SUNDAY, JUNE 3. +</p> + +<p> +Nine or ten pilgrims have joined us at +Quebec. We are now ninety-two in all, including +twenty-three priests. There is also another +priest on board, who is not a pilgrim. It is the +feast of Pentecost, and all the priests say +Mass. There are Masses all the morning at +two altars—such altars as men hastily +improvise on board ship—from 4.30 to 10. The +space between decks, forward of the saloon, +has been turned into a chapel. Around about +most of the pilgrims have their staterooms. +At the seven o'clock Mass, celebrated by +Father Pichon, S.J., director of the French +section of the pilgrimage, the Veni Creator +is sung with fine effect. Some of these French +Canadian priests and several of the lay +pilgrims, too, have splendid voices, trained in the +music of the Church. +</p> + +<p> +In the afternoon we assemble in our chapel +to sing the vespers of the day. Several of the +lay pilgrims, men and women, lend their voices, +and the ship resounds with the strains of the +divine psalmody, the Veni Creator, and the +Magnificat. What fine voices these French +Canadians have, and how well they know the +chant of the Church! Even the lay pilgrims +sing the psalms and hymns in Latin, recite +with us the Litany of Loreto in Latin, and +seem to understand every word of what they +sing or say. +</p> + +<p> +In the evening at eight there is service in +English. We sing two hymns:—Nearer My +God to Thee, and, Come Holy Ghost. Many +of the French priests and lay pilgrims join us +in singing. Father Kavanagh, S.J., director +of the English-speaking pilgrims, gives an +instruction on the mission and work of the Holy +Ghost. This is followed by the Rosary in +English, and Night Prayers in French. Every +day we say the Rosary together, in French at +3.30 p.m., and in English at 8.30. Every day, +too, hymns are sung to our Blessed Lady, the +Ave Maris Stella and her own canticle of the +Magnificat being our favourites. +</p> + +<p> +All day long we steam down the St. Lawrence, +hugging the southern bank. Early in +the afternoon, the mountains of St. Anne are +seen in the distance. They rise to a height of +from two to three thousand feet, back of the +hills that border on the river. Their summits +and shoulders are white with snow. It forms +a pleasing contrast to the blue of the river, and +the green of the fields that lie at their feet. +By this time all trace of tears has been wiped +away from the face of the June sky, which +smiles benignantly upon us. It is glorious +weather. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +MONDAY, JUNE 4. +</p> + +<p> +We have passed Gaspe, and are in the Gulf. +To the south, Bird Rock is dimly seen. Our +passenger list—already a long one—has +received an addition during the night. Two +birds, the smaller a sparrow, boarded the ship, +most likely before we were yet fairly away +from land. They are objects of much interest +to their fellow-passengers. The larger bird, +which the sailors take to be "a howl" (as one +of them expresses it), proves, on closer and +more careful scrutiny, to be a hawk. Jack-tar +is not an ornithologist. His acquaintance +with the feathery tribe seems to be confined to +a few aquatic birds, such as seagulls and +Mother Carey's chickens. As for land birds, it +is probable that he doesn't even "know a hawk +from a handsaw," much less from "a howl." +</p> + +<p> +The presence of the birds on board gives +rise to not a little speculation. Why hath the +sparrow left its cosy nest and the hawk its home +on the dry land, to roam over this waste of +waters? Some say that the birds are stealing +a free passage to Newfoundland. Others, +sagely taking into account how ill-assorted the +pair are, reach a more likely solution of the +puzzling problem. The hawk, they say, sallied +forth in the early dawn to find itself a +breakfast. The sparrow was already abroad +on similar mission bent. Chased by the pirate +of the air, and having a natural dislike to +become food for its hungry pursuer, instead of +getting something to appease its own hunger, +it sought refuge on the passing ship, closely +followed by its foe. As we near the coast of +Newfoundland the birds leave us and fly +landward. But whether the smaller was inside +the larger bird, when land was reached, is still +matter for speculation to the other passengers +of the Vancouver. +</p> + +<p> +By 10.30 a.m. we are abreast of Cape Ray. +As we steam by Channel, otherwise known as +Port Basque, we descry the massive hulk of +the Elder-Dempster liner, Montpellier, wrecked +here some weeks ago. Even the good ship +Vancouver might be cast away on these cruel +rocks, as was her sister ship, the Chicago, on +the rocks of Kinsale. This is the thought that +comes to one's mind as one gazes on the +stranded ship. But the smiling June sky, +radiant with sunshine, chases it quickly away, +and we breathe a prayer to the heart of Him +who rules the wind and the waves. +</p> + +<p> +We are now fairly at sea, and our ship has +made her first bow to the Atlantic rollers. +This token of homage old Neptune claims, nay +compels, from every ship that presses upon his +bosom and feels the throbbing of his mighty +heart. And full many a one of those who go +down to the sea in ships, is, in like manner, +made to pay tribute, and never a one but +grudges the payment. But the theme is too +painful to dwell upon. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +<a id="chap0201"></a> +TUESDAY, JUNE 5. +</p> + +<p> +A little before noon Cape Race is on our +larboard quarter, and in an hour or two more we +catch our last glimpse of Terra Nova. The +weather is still fine, and the sea comparatively +smooth. At 9 p.m. a large number of the +passengers gather in the saloon to hear a lecture +on the causes that led to the war in South +Africa. The lecture is by the Rev. Mr. Philips, +an Anglican minister, who has spent seven +years as missionary among the blacks and +half-breeds of the Transvaal. He arraigns the +Boer Government severely for its treatment of +the natives. The truth of what he says is +confirmed by Father Kavanagh, in seconding +the motion for a vote of thanks at the close of +the lecture. He remembers quite well when a +boy at Stonyhurst hearing the Jesuit Fathers, +returned from South Africa, recount what they +saw and heard of the oppression of subject +races by the Boers. "The tale they then told," +he says, "has been retold here to-night." Precisely +at 11 o'clock the sound of the whistle +warns us that we have at last run into the +inevitable fog. The dismal tooting is kept up +at intervals of one or two minutes during the +rest of the night. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +WEDNESDAY, JUNE 6. +</p> + +<p> +A good deal of motion in the ship; fewer +passengers at the breakfast table. Still Masses +are celebrated from 5.30 to 8, and several of +the priests and lay pilgrims receive Holy +Communion. In the afternoon, fogs again steal +upon us. They gather around our ship, these +mists of the mighty Atlantic, and envelop her +as with a shroud. They come and go at intervals +during the afternoon, forcing us to slow +down and at times come to a standstill, so great +is the danger of collision with an iceberg or an +incoming ship. There is nothing for it but to +wait for the fog to lift with such patience as +one can command. We pace the deck, or +withdraw to our staterooms and there listen +idly to the murmur of the waves as they beat +against the ship, or brood on the mystery of +the sobbing sea. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +THURSDAY, JUNE 7. +</p> + +<p> +From noon yesterday till noon to-day we +have covered 316 nautical miles, and are now +a little more than half way across from +Quebec to Liverpool. The log reads at noon: +Day, 7; lat., 30.06 N.; long., 38.36; distance +run, 316 miles. Remarks: Moderate winds, +choppy sea. The reader will please bear in +mind that this is from a ship's log, and that +the "remarks" are to be understood in a +strictly nautical sense. These "moderate" +winds of ours would pass on shore for +something between a very stiff breeze and a +moderate gale. And as for "choppy" seas, the +Atlantic is not exactly a pond, though sometimes +irreverently described as such by the fellow +who has never crossed it, and this choppy sea +makes our big ship reel and tumble about like +a man slightly more than "half seas over." There +is a deal of sickness in consequence. +Some are unable to leave their beds. Others +manage to crawl on deck, but only to lie there +in chairs, silent and sullen, or mope about with +a most woe-begone appearance. Even your +genial rover of the seas, who has been across a +score of times and assures you that he is not +the least bit sick, is not half so gay and +talkative as he was yesterday and the day before. +You see there are degrees and stages of seasickness, +and one passes through a great variety of +less or more painful experiences before the last +stage is reached. Over that final act of the +nautical drama (which to the heartless onlooker +is too often comedy, but to the chief actor, or +rather sufferer, is in the last degree tragic) we +willingly let the curtain fall. Many drink +sea-water, glass after glass of it, and believe that it +relieves them, or keeps them from falling sick, +as the case may be. I fancy I can hear some +one say as he reads this that the remedy is +worse than the disease. But I am quite sure +that the one who says so has never been +seasick—perhaps never been to sea—in his life. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +FRIDAY, JUNE 8. +</p> + +<p> +This morning, in spite of the rolling of the +ship, Masses were said and several of the +pilgrims received Holy Communion. There are +but few English pilgrims; including cleric and +lay, not more than a dozen out of the ninety-two. +I say English rather than English-speaking, +and in contradistinction to French, as +many of the French pilgrims speak English +fluently. +</p> + +<p> +There is little to break the monotony of a +sea voyage. One day is just like another. +You wake in the morning, rise, go through the +same little round, turn in at night. Each day +you seem to be just where you were the day +before. The same voices call out to you +"from the vasty deep." The same sea-waves +lift their crested heads, shake their flowing +manes, and sport and gambol in all the wild +abandon of their unbridled freedom. And +your vision is ever bounded by the same +narrow horizon. Anything is welcome that breaks +this sameness, the passing ship, or even the +seagull that wings its way over the water. We +have met few ships. The smoke of a steamer—of +two of them, indeed,—was descried yesterday +morning, and about sundown a big ship +under shortened sail was seen beating her way +to windward. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +SATURDAY, JUNE 9. +</p> + +<p> +One pilgrim, who has been well enough up +till now, is so squeamish to-day that he dare +not write even half a dozen lines for fear of +consequences. This "leaf," therefore, is all +but blank. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +TRINITY SUNDAY, JUNE 10. +</p> + +<p> +The sea still runs "choppy." It has been +our worst night since we came on board—"rocked +in the cradle of the deep," but with +no gentle hand. The rocking continues this +morning, and Mass is said by Father Pichon +and one or two other priests under considerable +difficulties. In the afternoon vespers are sung +in the saloon, and in the evening, after the +Rosary, there is a sermon in English by the +Rev. Father Sloan, Pastor of Fallowfield, in +the diocese of Ottawa. This is a very distressing +day to many of the passengers. There is +longing for the repose of smooth waters, and +from four in the afternoon eager eyes are +scanning the distant horizon, in front of us, for a +sight of land. At six it is sighted—a vast rock +in the form of a cathedral, known as the +"Skelligs," and by ten we are steering straight for +the Fastnet Light which flashes its welcome +rays upon us at intervals of a few seconds. +The anger of ocean is fast subsiding, the stars +are out, and the Irish moon looks down upon +us from a cloudless sky. It is the feast of the +Most Holy Trinity, and to-night, as in all the +nights since His creative hand hung those orbs +in space, "The heavens proclaim His glory, +and the firmament of heaven shows forth the +work of His hands." +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +MONDAY, JUNE 11. +</p> + +<p> +I have spoken of Masses said under difficulties. +There are difficulties and difficulties. +While I was serving Father Kavanagh's Mass +at 8 o'clock this morning, voices pitched in a +high key came from a stateroom hard by. +This is what the voices said—needless to say +the owners were neither pilgrims nor of the +household of the faith: +</p> + +<p> +Male voice: "Open the porthole." +</p> + +<p> +Female voice, from an adjoining stateroom, +shrill, as if in anger: "Do you command? +Are you 'boss'?" (The bedroom steward +alone may open the porthole). +</p> + +<p> +Male voice: "Mine is open." +</p> + +<p> +Female voice (sarcastically): "Don't fall +through." +</p> + +<p> +We are now in St. George's Channel. On +our right, but not in view, is the coast of +Wales. On our left the coast of Ireland is +plainly visible. With a pair of glasses we can +see cottages, churches, and the green, green +fields of Erin. We shall be in Liverpool about +ten o'clock to-night. There I will mail this +batch of "leaves" which have at least the merit +of continuity. Others to follow will +necessarily be scattered and disconnected—stray +leaves blown about by every wind of travel. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap0102"></a></p> + +<p class="t3"> +<a id="chap0202"></a> +PARIS, MONDAY, JUNE 18. +</p> + +<p> +We reached Liverpool a week ago +to-day. It was about ten a.m. when +we entered the Mersey, having +been detained by fog for some time at the +mouth of the river. The famous docks of +the city, stretching for six miles on the +left bank of the Mersey, as you enter, were +lighted with electricity, presenting a brilliant +spectacle. At ten the next morning we were +on our way to London by the Great Western +R.R., which runs through some of the finest +parts of England. Rural England, at least +what we have seen of it, is highly cultivated +and very beautiful. The country traversed by +the Great Western trains, from Liverpool to +London, is one vast park—great grassy plains +on either hand, with here a river, and there +occasionally a mountain, and everywhere rows +of trim hedges and the majestic oaks of Old +England. We pass through smoky Birmingham, +and from the railway catch a glimpse of +the twin towers of Christ's Church, Oxford, +both places fraught with reminders of the +illustrious Cardinal Newman. +</p> + +<p> +In London, we stay for the greater part of +three days. Our hotel is hard by Westminster +Abbey. We visit the famous abbey more than +once, and each time with mingled feelings of +admiration and sadness—admiration for the +noble temple itself, and sadness for the change +that has come over it, and the uses to which it +is put. The hour is half-past ten in the +morning and the Canons of Westminster are +chanting their office. Decorous and sweet is the +music of their voices, but it grates upon the ear +as one thinks of those old monks of St. Benedict, +who so often here offered the Holy Sacrifice, +and made the vast edifice resound with far +other and more solemn music in the centuries +long gone by. Here rest the sainted bones of +Edward the Confessor, in the magnificent +shrine prepared for them by the founder of the +abbey, Henry III, in the thirteenth century. +Yonder is the tomb of the ruthless Cromwell, +and a few steps beyond it, Charles Darwin, +naturalist and agnostic, lies in death. Over +against the monument of the martyred Mary +Queen of Scots, rises that of her royal cousin +and murderess, Elizabeth. The place is full of +these painful contrasts, though fragrant still +with memories of its glorious past—a past +which, however, bids fair to renew itself, at +least in a measure, for England and her people. +Is it not a token of this "second spring" +that the Faith which built Westminster Abbey, +and which people once fondly thought was +dead and buried in England, past all hope of +resurrection, is now building an even more +spacious temple to the Most High, not many +hundred yards from the historic abbey, the new +Catholic cathedral of Westminster. +</p> + +<p> +Back of what was once the high altar of the +old abbey is the Coronation Chair, with, +beneath it, the historic Stone of Scone, on which +the Scottish Kings used to be crowned for long +ages before the days of Bruce. Now the +monarchs of England sit in the chair on the day of +their coronation. Queen Victoria sat in it +twice, once when the diadem of the greatest +empire of the earth was placed on her girlish +brow—she was still in her teens—and a second +time, sixty years after, on the occasion of her +Diamond Jubilee. One other, more youthful, +but of low degree, sat in the royal chair +since—aye, and slept in it too, so our +guide tells us. A boy from the neighbouring +schools was dared by his mates to spend a night +alone with the bones of the mighty dead, and +the ghosts of the Royal Chapel. He did so, +slept in the Coronation Chair, and boylike cut +his name and the record of his nocturnal +exploit in the wood on which Royalty has been +enthroned since the days of the First Edward. +Many are the sights of London. But we +pilgrims are not sightseers, though of course +we do not travel with our eyes closed. During +the two or three days that we were in London, +several places of historic interest were +visited, among others the famous Tower. As +for myself, I went not much about, having +spent in all six days in London on the two +former occasions that I was in the city. I paid a +visit to an old classmate of mine in the +Propaganda, who is now Canon Gildea, rector of +St. James's, in Spanish Place. From him I +learned that there are altogether about one +hundred Catholic churches in London, most of +them somewhat small of size, and that they are +so situated that the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass +is offered up every Sunday within ten minutes' +walk of any Catholic home in the vast city. On +the Feast of Corpus Christi I assisted at the +Solemn High Mass and Procession of the +Blessed Sacrament in the Brompton Oratory. +The church of the Oratory is easily the finest +Catholic church in London. It is modelled on +the great church of St. Philip, in Rome, and +is distinctly Roman in every detail. Here +Newman preached those thrilling sermons which +drew Thackeray away from his novel writing +and Macaulay from some favourite haunt in +the literary circles of the city. The echoes of +that wondrous voice seem still to linger in the +place. Newman's figure in white marble, +larger than life, fronting the street that runs by +the Oratory, arrests the steps of many a passer-by. +</p> + +<p> +Between England and France, the distance is +not great, if you reckon it in miles, but it is +leagues and leagues if you measure it by +differences of race and national characteristics. +The English Channel, with its swift tide and +fretful sea, severs two entirely different +peoples. We cross from Folkestone to +Boulogne-sur-Mer. Boulogne is a quaint old-world +town, and a favourite resort of tourists. We +make but a short stay, and push on to Paris. +Our way lies through an undulating country, +well-wooded and well-watered, with here and +there a great stretch of pasture-land, where +flocks of sheep are grazing and shepherds with +their dogs are keeping watch. This part of +France does not appear to be as highly +cultivated as are the parts of England that we +have seen; but the scenery is more diversified. +By ten o'clock at night the electric light on the +summit of the Eiffel Tower is visible afar, +and we know that we are nearing Paris. +</p> + +<p> +We arrived in Paris last Friday night. We +leave it next Wednesday morning. What shall +I say of the City on the Seine, the gay and +brilliant capital of France? I will say frankly that +I don't like it—that I would rather live in +London with its dullness and fog, than live in Paris +with its gaiety and sunshine. Why? Well, +perhaps because I am dull myself, at least in +the sense of not being gay—certainly not +because I love the fog, for I do dearly love the +blue sky and the light of the blessed sun. +Perhaps, again, it is because I don't understand the +French tongue or French ways as I understand +the English tongue and English ways. But +most of all, I think, what I dislike about Paris +is its godlessness. The evidences of it are on +every hand. The Londoner has at least the +good sense to hide his irreligion, if he is +irreligious. At any rate, he does not wear the +badge of his irreligion in the streets. The +Parisian, who is irreligious, parades his +irreligion and seems to glory in his shame. I have +seen less of London than of Paris—too little +of either, indeed, to enable me to form a just +idea of their condition. But certainly the +latter city seems to be the more godless of the +two. +</p> + +<p> +Religion there is in Paris, and piety, too, +much more of it, I have no doubt at all, than +there is in the city on the Thames. But it hides +itself in church and home; the stranger in the +streets sees little of it. Take the matter of +Sunday observance. Public opinion and the law in +London make people respect, at least +outwardly, the Lord's Day; public opinion and the +law in Paris make people do the very opposite, +at least as far as the force of custom and +example and the spur of business rivalry can +bring this effect about. Last Sunday in Paris +almost all the shops were open, and people went +about their work as on an ordinary week day. +Paris does not keep the Sunday, though many +Parisians doubtless do. Is there no warrant +for the inference that Paris has ceased to be +Christian? +</p> + +<p> +This is a land of contrasts, and Paris is +emphatically a city of contrasts. Piety and +godlessness, virtue and vice, are here more sharply +contrasted than in any other city on earth. "If +the devil reigns in Paris, God is, perhaps, better +served there than anywhere else; good and +evil alike find their supreme expression; 'tis +Babylon and Jerusalem both." +</p> + +<p> +In the grand churches dwells the deepest +piety; godlessness is rampant without. We are +in Notre Dame Sunday, during the Procession +of the Blessed Sacrament. What a splendid +spectacle! The music how heavenly! Boys +with angel voices make the stately edifice ring +with the grand old chant of the Church. +Troops of boys and girls, the boys with lighted +torches in their hands, the girls clothed in +spotless white and bearing great bunches of roses +which shed their fragrance far, march in the +long procession. At the end, the Eucharistic +Lord, from His throne over the high altar, +blesses the assembled multitude. It is all so +solemn and so soulstirring. We pass out from +the church, deeply moved. The street is almost +blocked with worldly traffic, and men—two +soldiers and two civilians—are playing cards +under the very shadow of Notre Dame. +</p> + +<p> +Sunday morning, the pilgrims went in a body +to Montmartre—the priests to say Mass, the +lay pilgrims to hear Mass and receive Holy +Communion. The basilica which the piety of +Catholic France has erected to the Sacred +Heart on Montmartre is truly a splendid +structure. Built on a lofty eminence, it dominates +the city which seems to lie quite at one's feet. +Five thousand boys from the seminaries of +France received Holy Communion at Montmartre +that morning. As one watched tier +after tier of them at the high altar eat of the +Bread of Life, with every mark of piety and +devotion, one felt that there was hope for the +future of the Church in France. And yet at +least to human seeming, how gloomy is the +outlook! One of the lay pilgrims, a very +devout French-Canadian, told me after we left +Montmartre that morning of a talk he had with +a Parisian matron the day before. She had +two children—the regulation number, for in +France, as statistics show, the deaths all but +exceed the births. She sent them to Mass, she +said, though she did not go herself, remarking +that no harm would come of their going. She +sent them to the godless State school, because +they would not get on so well in the world, +she thought, if they went to the Christian +Brothers' school. There is reason to fear that +many of the mothers of France are to-day like +this Parisian dame—solicitous about the things +of this world, and neither knowing nor caring +for the things that are above. +</p> + +<p> +At dinner, in the restaurant at Boulogne on +Friday, only meat was served. We asked for +fish, but could get none. At lunch, in our own +hotel here at Paris the same evening, again no +fish. True, the railway restaurant at Boulogne +and the hotel at Paris cater to the travelling +public. But do not the French themselves +travel? And if, in travelling, they eat fish on +Friday, will not fish be forthcoming when +asked for? I have said that Paris does not +keep the Sunday—at least the Sunday rest; I +fear that France does not keep Friday, or keeps +it but very indifferently. I speak as one less +wise and under correction. But putting this +and that together, I cannot but conclude that +there is a dreadful decay of faith in France. It +does not seem possible that the France of the +Catholic Missions, the France of our Lady of +Lourdes, will be lost to the Church. But if she +is to be saved to God and Church, it will be so +as by fire. Another chastisement, cutting +deeper into the nation's life than that of 1870, +must first bring to her knees, and to the very +dust in penance, the Eldest Daughter of the +Church. +</p> + +<p> +I am at the end of my chapter, and not a +word about the Exposition. I have visited +the grounds but once, and then viewed them +from the Eiffel Tower, midway to the top. +The buildings, which stand on both banks of +the Seine, are certainly very grand. They +seem to be more spacious, upon the whole, +than were those of the Chicago Exposition. +But they do not stand by themselves and +apart, as was the case in Chicago; you do not +get one impression of them, so to say; nor is +the sight so beautiful as was that of the White +City on the shores of Lake Michigan. The +view to be had from the Ferris Wheel at +Chicago was, I think, finer than that which +you get to-day from the Eiffel Tower at +Paris. I am speaking only of what is to be +seen of the Exposition from without. But +what of the Paris Fair from within? That +you must learn, if at all, from some one else. +I paid but a flying visit to one of the +buildings, and saw a variety of things of which +I have now but a very confused notion. I +have no faculty for seeing things, as your +enthusiastic sightseer has, and can find no sort of +pleasure in the process. To me it is all a +weariness of spirit—and a weariness of the +flesh into the bargain. Non satiatur oculus +videndo, says the Wise Man—the eye is not +sated with seeing. To which one may add, +in view of the special circumstances of the +case, sed fatigatur corpus ambulando—but the +body is fatigued with walking. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap0103"></a></p> + +<p class="t3"> +<a id="chap0203"></a> +GENEVA, SUNDAY, JUNE 24, 1900. +</p> + +<p> +We left Paris last Wednesday morning, +and arrived at Paray le Monial a +little before six in the afternoon. +All day we traversed a land of great fertility, +rich in grain fields, for the most part open +and level, in places picturesque. The season +here is at least six weeks earlier than at +home. Already the grain is ripe or fast +ripening in the fields, and the people are busily +at work making their hay and gathering in +the harvest. +</p> + +<p> +Paray le Monial is situated on the banks of +a small stream, in the Department of Loire-et-Saone, +in the very heart of France. It is a +town of not more than 4,000 inhabitants, +quiet with the quietude of all country places, +quaint with the quaintness of almost all of +the old-world towns. No smoke of factories +darkens its sky, no sound of worldly traffic is +heard in its streets. You hear instead the +song of birds in the morning, the pealing of +bells, and all day long the pilgrim's hymn. A +deep peace, a sweet and restful tranquility, +broods on the place which the Prince of Peace, +the Lord of the Sacred Heart, has chosen for +His sanctuary. +</p> + +<p> +The Chapel of the Sacred Heart, attached +to the Convent of the Visitation, must seem +commonplace enough to the ordinary traveller. +It is small of size, and, as seen from without, +very plain, very unpretentious. Within is a +wealth of votive offerings from every land. +Consecrated banners, wrought in silk and gold +and richly embroidered, are ranged around +the walls, and the light of many lamps falls +upon the high altar where Our Blessed Lord +revealed His heart to the lowly Visitandine, +and whence He still dispenses His grace. +</p> + +<p> +All day Thursday and far into the night +pilgrims keep pouring in from all parts. All +night long the Chapel is open, and the stream +of incoming and outgoing pilgrims is as the +flow and ebb of a mighty sea. At two in the +morning of Friday, Feast of the Sacred Heart, +the Masses begin. They continue at all of the +eight altars until ten, at most of them until +twelve, yet not one-third of the priests in +Paray le Monial with the great International +Pilgrimage can say Mass this day in the +sanctuary of the Sacred Heart. They must +needs go elsewhere, to the basilica, to other +churches or chapels. +</p> + +<p> +At ten o'clock Solemn High Mass is +celebrated in the basilica, the Vicar-General of +Paris being the celebrant. The Bishop of +Autun, Cardinal Perraud, occupies the throne +on the gospel side, for Paray le Monial is in +his jurisdiction. In the sanctuary are several +prelates and dignitaries, among others +Arch-bishop Corrigan of New York, and as many +priests as can find standing room. The church +is literally packed with pilgrims, yet many +thousands have been unable to gain entrance. +In the nave, directly in front of the main altar, +are ranged the banners of the various pilgrimages, +some thirty or forty in all—I cannot give +the exact number. Hither they have been +borne by pilgrim bands from all quarters of +the globe, from many countries of Europe, +from Asia, from Africa, from America, North +and South, and from the islands of the far +Pacific Ocean. Conspicuous among them is +our own Canadian banner, with its almost +life-size image of Our Lord revealing His Sacred +Heart in the centre, and ranged along the +borders the heroic founders of the Church in +Canada, Laval, Champlain, Maisonneuve, +Breboeuf, Mary of the Incarnation, Marguerite +Bourgeois, and the foundress of the Ursulines +of Quebec. A little beyond is unfurled +another American banner, which proudly claims +a place here to-day by a right peculiarly its +own. It is the banner of Catholic Ecuador, +the Republic of the Sacred Heart. Inscribed +on it, in letters of gold, which first were +written in blood, are the words of the martyred +President, Garcia Moreno, as he fell by the +hand of the assassin, Iddios ne meure—God +dies not. At the Credo all are on their feet, +and the priests in the sanctuary and in all parts +of the basilica pilgrim voices from many lands +sing in unison the time-honoured Confession +of the Faith "once delivered to the saints"—in +the chant of the Church and in the language +of the Church, the Creed of the Church +Catholic and Apostolic. It is a most impressive +and most solemn scene, one never to be +forgotten. +</p> + +<p> +Thursday night the pilgrims made the Way +of the Cross by torchlight in the great garden +adjoining the basilica. The garden itself was +brilliant with lights, and at each station the +arch-priest attached to the basilica delivered a +discourse in French, of some five or ten +minutes. In the intervals between stations the +vast multitude joined in singing the hymn of +Catholic France, with its pleading refrain, +Sauvez, Sauvez la France. On the afternoon +of Friday the basilica was again packed to +hear the sermon of Father Couper, one of the +first preachers of France, and to assist at the +International Act of Consecration to the +Sacred Heart. It was indeed a red-letter day +in the City of the Sacred Heart. From earliest +dawn the streets were lined with pilgrims in +picturesque costumes and gay with banners, +the Papal colours and the banner of the Sacred +Heart ever holding the place of honour. As +the sun went down and darkness fell upon the +scene, the celebration was brought to a close +by a great torchlight procession through the +streets. +</p> + +<p> +That night, in the hotel of the Sacred Heart +hard by the Chapel of the Visitation, the +Canadian pilgrims were introduced to General +Charette, sometime leader of the Pontifical +Zouaves, and Admiral Cuverville, of the +French Navy. Both made short speeches +brimful of Gallic fire, and of loyalty to the +Sacred Heart and to Holy Mother Church. O +that France had many such high-souled, +God-fearing men among her leaders and councillors! +</p> + +<p> +There were many pilgrimages at Paray le +Monial, and many people represented there. +But it is quite safe to say that the pilgrimage +which represented the Catholics of Canada cut +the greatest figure and claimed the greatest +share of attention. This it owed not to its +numbers; numerically it was one of the smallest. +Nor was it the rank or dignity of its members +that won it a foremost place: it was made +up of plain priests and humble lay people, +many of them from the remote rural districts +of the Province of Quebec. But the Catholics +of France saw in the vast majority of the +pilgrim band that gathered round the Canadian +banner the descendants of the men and +women who went forth from France three +centuries ago to found a new France on the banks +of the St. Lawrence. And as they heard them +sing their hymns in French to airs that have +been familiar to generations of pious Frenchmen, +and saw how they still hold fast, with +unswerving fidelity, the Faith of their Fathers, +the Faith of Old France, their hearts went out +to them as they went out to the members of no +other pilgrimage there. Most of all was this +made manifest yesterday morning as we +gathered in the sanctuary at Paray le Monial +to sing for the last time before leaving the +hymn of the Canadian pilgrims. Mr. Rivet, +organizer of the pilgrimage, who has a rich, +strong and most musical voice, sang the solos, +and all joined in the chorus. The emotion of +many present found vent in tears, and copies +of the hymn were afterwards eagerly sought +for. This particular hymn, one of two, was +composed while we were in London, by a +French Canadian Sister who has entered a +convent there. I subjoin a copy of it, with an +English translation, which one who looks at it +without reading might mistake for verse, but +which is really only a rude rendering into +English, line for line and almost word for +word, of the original: +</p> + +<p class="t3"> + Cantique des Pelerins Canadiens<br> + a Paray le Monial.<br> +</p> + +<p><br><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + (AIR: PITIE, MON DIEU.)<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + I.<br> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Des bords lointains de la Nouvelle France,<br> + Du Canada, Maitre, nous accourons;<br> + O Roi des rois, a Vous notre allegeance.<br> + A votre Coeur, nous nous consacrons.<br> + Coeur adorable,<br> + Foyer d'amour,<br> + Le pays de l'erable<br> + Est a Vous sans retour.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + II.<br> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Peuples, debout! le Maitre nous appelle,<br> + Rallions-nous autour du Sacre-Coeur;<br> + Il faut au monds une seve nouvelle:<br> + Allons tous boire aux sources du Sauveur.<br> + Coeur adorable,<br> + Nous voici tous,<br> + Nous venons, Coeur aimable,<br> + Chercher la vie en vous.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + III.<br> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Nos maux sont grands, nous sommes bien coupables,<br> + Mais Vous, mon Dieu, vous etes toujours bon;<br> + Vous avez fait les peuples guerissables,<br> + Il leur suffit de Vous crier: Pardon!<br> + Coeur adorable,<br> + Qui nous aimez,<br> + A la terre coupable,<br> + Coeur divin, pardonnez.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + IV.<br> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Coeur de Jesus, que tous les coeurs soient votres,<br> + Au cher pays, en la France, en tous lieux!<br> + Par votre amour, unis les uns aux autres,<br> + Nous serons forts et nous serons heureux.<br> + Nous voulons etre<br> + A Vous, Jesus;<br> + Prenez nos coeurs, bon Maitre,<br> + Et ne les rendez plus.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + V.<br> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Daignez benir notre chere Patrie,<br> + Tous nos foyers, nos Pretres, nos Pasteurs;<br> + Et que toujours, de Jesus, de Marie,<br> + Les Canadiens soient loyaux serviteurs!<br> + Coeur adorable,<br> + Gardez tou jours<br> + Au pays de l'erable<br> + La foi des anciens jours.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + Hymn of the French-Canadian<br> + Pilgrims at Paray le Monial.<br> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + From the shores of far New France,<br> + From Canada, Lord, we come;<br> + O King of Kings, we swear fealty to Thee,<br> + And to Thy Sacred Heart we consecrate ourselves.<br> + Adorable Heart,<br> + Fountain of Love,<br> + The Land of the Maple<br> + Is Thine forevermore.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + II.<br> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Hark, ye peoples! the Master calls us,<br> + Let us rally round His Sacred Heart.<br> + The world needs the sap of a new life;<br> + Let us all go and drink at the fountains of the Saviour.<br> + Adorable Heart,<br> + Behold us all here,<br> + We come, O loving Heart,<br> + To find life in Thee.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + III.<br> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Great are our sins, our souls are stained with guilt,<br> + But Thou, my God, Thou art ever merciful,<br> + In Thee is healing for the Nations;<br> + Enough that they cry out: Forgive!<br> + Adorable Heart<br> + That lovest us;<br> + Pardon, Heart Divine,<br> + The guilt-stained world.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + IV.<br> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Heart of Jesus, may all hearts be Thine,<br> + In our own dear country, in France, in every land!<br> + Bound together by the bonds of Thy love,<br> + We shall find strength and happiness.<br> + Thine, O Jesus,<br> + We would be;<br> + Take our hearts, dear Lord,<br> + And make them Thine for ever.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + V.<br> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Deign to bless our dear Country,<br> + Our Homes, our Priests, our Bishops;<br> + And may Canadians ever be<br> + Faithful Servants of Jesus and Mary!<br> + Adorable Heart,<br> + Always conserve<br> + To the Land of the Maple<br> + The Faith of our Fathers!<br> +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p> +We reached Geneva last night and are +leaving to-morrow morning for Berne. Geneva +is a beautiful city, situated at the head of the +lake of the same name. The atmosphere is +wonderfully clear here to-day and the sun +shines out of a cloudless sky. Afar off—though +it seems not far, it must be some score +of miles away—the snowy summit of Mont +Blanc is distinctly visible. All around are +Alpine peaks. The city is full of historic +interest. Here Calvin preached his gloomy +creed and ruled with an iron rod. Here, too, +the very opposite of Calvin in every way, that +sweetest and most lovable of Saints, Francis +of Sales, wielded episcopal authority over a +devoted flock. His spirit seems to breathe in +the peace and calm of this June day. One +can even fancy that one hears the accents of +his gentle voice calling his sheep away from +earthly pastures to heavenly ones, guiding +them ever onward to the Great Shepherd of +the sheep, in the fold upon the everlasting +hills. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap0204"></a></p> + +<p class="t3"> +LUCERNE, WEDNESDAY, JUNE 27. +</p> + +<p> +The parts of Switzerland that are +capable of cultivation seem to be even +more fertile than the parts of France +that we have passed through. Both the hay +and grain crops are heavier, at least this year, +and the vine thrives marvellously on the +hillsides of this beautiful and romantic land. For +beautiful it is and romantic, this land of +bright-blue skies, and snow-capped mountains, and +leaping cataracts, and sylvan glades, and +smiling valleys. +</p> + +<p> +We spent Sunday at Geneva, and stayed two +or three hours at Berne Monday on our way +to Interlaken. Berne is the national capital. +Its most notable buildings are the Federal +House of Parliament and the Lutheran +Cathedral. The latter dates from the beginning +of the 15th century, and to this day bears about +it tokens of the Faith that first set it up. +Berne is the German word for "bear." The +city takes its name "de bellua caesa," as an +old monument bears witness, from a bear +having been slain on the site where it stands. +Thence the bear is the emblem and heraldic +decoration of the Swiss capital. You can't +turn in any direction without running across +the figure of a bear. The poor beast is drawn +in every conceivable shape and tortured into +every conceivable attitude. One is reminded +of the fable of the Lion and the Man, as told +by Newman. There are bears couchant, bears +passant, and bears regardant. There are old +bears and young bears, big bears and little +bears, bears climbing trees, bears standing on +their hind legs, bears hugging each other, and +bears making faces at each other. And to +crown all, the city maintains four huge live +bears and several young ones in an enclosure +about twelve feet below the level of the ground. +They are shown to every visitor who crosses +the stone bridge that spans the Aar river, on +the banks of which Berne stands. +</p> + +<p> +Interlaken, as the name implies, is situated +between two lakes. It is an ideal summer resort, +a very paradise of tourists. It is hemmed +in by mountains on every side. On the east, +Jungfrau lifts her snowy summit to the skies. +Jungfrau (pronounced yungfrau) is German +for virgin. And a tall virgin she is, this +Maiden of the Snows, ever holding her head +erect some 13,000 feet above the level of the +sea. She always wears her white mantle, and +for apron a great glacier. On the evening of +our arrival she had on a cap of cloud, and +some time during the night further shrouded +herself in a veil of mist. Nor would she lift it +as we went away, eager though we were to +catch a glimpse of her morning face. +</p> + +<p> +Between Interlaken and Lucerne the scenery +is uninterruptedly grand. Mountain, lake, and +Alpine river quickly succeed one another, but +without sameness. The most remarkable feature +of this route is the over-mountain railway. +The train climbs an Alpine hill from 1,200 to +1,500 feet in height, and makes its way +down on the other side. Our train was +divided into three sections, each section of +which was pulled by a powerful locomotive. +The wheels revolve on cogs set in the rails. +At one time the train is on the very edge of a +precipice, with a sheer descent of several +hundred feet; at another, an overhanging cliff +threatens to fall down on top of it and smash +it into atoms. Now it seems to be on the verge +of dropping into a lake hundreds of feet +below; the next moment the dense Alpine forests +hides even the heavens from one's view. It is +a thrilling experience, and one feels a sense of +relief once it is fairly over. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap0205"></a></p> + +<p class="t3"> +ROME, JULY 6TH, 1900. +</p> + +<p> +It is more than a week since last I put +pen to paper. We were then at Lucerne, +amid the eternal hills. We are now in +the Eternal City. Into this short space much +has been crowded—too much even to touch on +here or give in barest outline. There is the +sublime scenery of the Alpine Passes between +Lucerne and Como, with the passage through +the great tunnel at St. Gothard's. There is +Milan with its marvellous Duomo, "a dream +in marble," as some prose poet has pictured it. +There is the vast plain of Lombardy, stretching +for miles and miles from the foot of the Alps +to the Mediterranean, the garden of Italy, as +Italy is the garden of Europe. Then there is +Venice, Queen of the Adriatic, the city of doges +and of gondolas. The doges are dead; we +visited the church where monuments in marble +and in bronze enshrine their ashes and perpetuate +all that now remains of their former +greatness—a fugitive and fitful memory. The +gondolas are still there, with their graceful, +swan-like shape and movement—just such as they +were in the days when the Republic of Venice +was mistress of the seas. There, again, is +Padua, with its shrine of St. Anthony, whose +incorrupt tongue still witnesses to the power +with which this "trumpet of the Gospel" +heralded Christ and Him crucified. There, too, is +Loreto, with its Holy House, where the Word +was made Flesh—a most gracious shrine. +Lastly, as we hasten Romeward, midway +between Ancona and Rome, amid the Umbrian +hills, yet another shrine draws us to itself—Assisi, +where live the memories of St. Francis +and the spirit of St. Francis—live, too, as +fresh and fragrant as are the blood-bedewed +roses that bloom on thornless bushes in his +garden, where he fought the good fight against +temptation and won for the men of all time the +Pardon of the Portiuncula. +</p> + +<p> +Those of us who spent Wednesday in Assisi +did not reach Rome until a late hour that night. +Imagine our surprise and almost consternation +when we were told that all the pilgrims were to +be received in audience by the Holy Father +at eleven the next (yesterday) morning. We +had counted on being at least a day or two in +Rome before the audience took place, and we +were not ready. We ran about for two or +three hours in the morning, buying medals, +etc., to be blessed—I with no little difficulty, +getting English gold for the cheques containing +the Peter Pence offering of our diocese, some +two thousand one hundred and fifty francs. +By eleven o'clock we are at the Vatican, and +half an hour afterwards Pope Leo enters +the Sala Clementina, borne on a chair, amid +the 'evivas' of the assembled pilgrims. There +are two pilgrimages, the Brazilian, ranged +along one side of the great hall, and the +Canadian along the other. First the Pope +receives the Brazilians, then the Canadians. He +is carried in his chair right around the hall, in +front of the pilgrims who line the sides. To +each he gives his hand to kiss; to each his +blessing and some gracious token of tenderness—a +word, a smile; to all, at the close, the +Apostolic Benediction. Pope Leo is of course +changed since I saw him last, sixteen years +ago; the white hair is scantier and whiter still, +the lines on the face are deeper, the hands +are more tremulous, the voice has lost its +resonance. But the light of the coal black eye +is not dimmed, there is more of pathos in the +voice, and the whole face has melted into +tenderness. There has come into it a gentler and +more winning look, which one likens to the +mellowness of ripe fruit when it is ready to +drop from the tree. This fruit is surely meet +to be gathered, one says to oneself, yet none +but the Master's hand may pluck it from the +stem. +</p> + +<p> +The scene in the Sala Clementina, at the +close of the audience, as the aged Pontiff +blessed the pilgrims, I will not attempt to +describe. I shall never forget it, and no one who +was there ever can forget it. When the Pope +raised himself on his chair and stretched out +his hand to give the Apostolic Benediction, +there was a stillness as of death throughout the +vast hall—a stillness soon broken by sobs, for +tears filled the eyes of all that were there, and +many wept aloud. The first words were spoken +in distinct though somewhat low tones, but as +the last words, in nomine Patris et Filii et +Spiritus Sancti, were being uttered the Holy +Father himself broke down completely. The +voice grew husky with emotion, the eyes +closed, and great tears rolled down the aged +cheeks. Leo XIII felt that he was blessing +for the last time these faithful children of his +from the two Americas, and we felt that never +in this life should we look upon his face again. +I must close abruptly, without as much as +one word about Rome itself- -Rome to which +I have come, not merely as a pilgrim from +afar to a holy place of pilgrimage, but as a son +comes to his mother after long years of +separation. For Rome is to me the mother of my +soul. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap0207"></a></p> + +<p class="t3"> +GENOA, FRIDAY, JULY 13. +</p> + +<p> +We left Rome Tuesday at 2 p.m., after +a stay of six days, which was all too +short. For one could spend months +and months in Rome and still not see a tithe of +what is worth seeing, or even begin to be weary +of a place so rich in all that sages have thought +and poets have dreamed of and artists have +wrought and martyrs have bled for and saints +have loved. We leave Rome with regret; feeling +as all must feel in whom there is a spark of +Divine Faith, that it is the City of the Soul, to +which, in the words of the poet, "the exile of +the heart" must forever turn. +</p> + +<p> +The run from Rome to Florence is made in +five or six hours. Florence, the city of flowers, +is built on both banks of the Arno. It is a +beautiful city much frequented by tourists. +It is the birthplace of many of Italy's +greatest sons, of Dante, of Michael Angelo, of +Galileo. Here Savonarola lived and preached +and wielded an influence more potent than that +of any civil ruler. We saw, in one of the +palaces of the Medici, the chapel where he spoke +his last words to his brother monks, just +before he was led out to be burnt at the stake in +the Piazza of the Signoria, hard by. Here, +too, first saw the light of day one who was +the opposite of Savonarola in many ways, the +sweet and gentle Philip Neri. Rome, the city +of his adoption, of which he became the second +Apostle, is still filled with the fragrance of his +saintly life. +</p> + +<p> +From Florence we come by rail to Pisa, +and thence the same day to Genoa. From +Spezia to the latter city, the railway, skirting +the shores of the Mediterranean, is one series +of tunnels. In the intervals between tunnels +we catch glimpses of as beautiful and picturesque +scenery as one could wish to gaze upon—a +background of hills, rising in many places +abruptly to a great height, sloping vineyards, +groves of olive, clusters of fruit trees, and, in +front, the waters of the Mediterranean, clear as +crystal and mirroring in their depths the fleecy +summer clouds that float in the blue above. +Over all, like a great dome over Nature's own +Cathedral, is the sky of Italy. +</p> + +<p> +"Genoa la Superba"—Genoa the Superb—the +Genoese call this city by the rippling +Mediterranean, and well they may. It is, +indeed, superb. In its marble palaces could be +entertained to-day, in princely fashion, all the +princes of the earth. It is the richest city of +the peninsula, the great mart of the Mediterranean, +the Liverpool of Italy. From the harbour, +where float the flags of all nations, the +city resembles a vast amphitheatre, tier upon +tier of tall buildings rising one above another. +Even the urchins in the street are proud of this +queenly city. In the higher part of the town, +away up among the hills, near the marvellous +Campo Santo, a group of them stood talking +rapidly, and to me unintelligibly, in their own +Genoese dialect, as we passed by. "Che +linguaggio parlate voi altri?" I asked somewhat +bluntly. "Noi," says one of the number, with +a sweep of the hand which took in the other +members of the group, and then pointing +proudly with his finger to his breast, "Noi +siamo Genovesi—We are natives of Genoa." +</p> + +<p> +That Campo Santo, by the same token, is one +of the wonders of the world. Truly the dead +of Genoa dwell in marble halls, and this city +of the dead is a miracle in marble. Every +monument is a work of art. The pose of that +figure, how graceful and natural! Those faces +in marble and bronze, how life-like are they! +The dead seem to live in them again, and to +look down at you with their solemn eyes from +the other world. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + We loved that hall, tho' white and cold<br> + Those niched shapes of noble mould<br> + A princely people's awful princes,<br> + The grave, severe Genoese of old.<br> + —Tennyson, "The Daisy."<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +Quieti et Memoriae—you meet it everywhere, +this terse and beautiful epigraph. +Recalling the memory of some dear departed one, +it breathes a prayer for that rest after which +the human heart ever hungers here below—that +rest which we look for "where beyond +these voices there is peace." +</p> + +<p> +For full nine hundred years, from 900 to +1,800, Genoa maintained herself an +independent Republic. Already six centuries had +rolled over this Old World Republic when the +boldest of her sailors embarked at Palos on his +voyage of discovery. "Were it not for him +we might all of us to-day be—Indians," is the +curious thought that comes to one of the +pilgrims as he gazes on the massive monument, +near the railway station, which bears the +legend in huge letters: +</p> + +<p class="t3"> + A CHRISOFORO COLOMBO LA PATRIA<br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Ah, those might-have-beens of an unborn past! +It is bootless to speculate upon them. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap0208"></a></p> + +<p class="t3"> +LOURDES, JULY 19, 1900. +</p> + +<p> +"Lourdes is a small town in the +diocese of Tarbes, Hautes Pyrenees, +picturesquely situated on the right +bank of the river Gave." I quote the words +from a booklet which purports to be "A Short +Account of the Apparitions and Miracles at +Lourdes." We arrived here from Toulouse +about five o'clock on the afternoon of the +day before yesterday. It had been a very +hot day in the cars, but all covered with sweat +and dust as we were we went straight in +procession to the Grotto of Our Lady, without +waiting to go to our hotel. There, on our +knees before the statue, which smiles down +sweetly upon us, as did erstwhile the Virgin +Mother for whom it stands, upon the simple +peasant girl of the Pyrenees, we recite the +Rosary and sing the Magnificat. All about us +throngs are kneeling in prayer, and there are +signs of a subdued excitement, for just five +minutes before our arrival a young girl who +had suffered severe injuries by a fall three +years ago, and was carried thither in her little +carriage, a few hours before, was seen to rise +to her feet and walk. But neither before nor +after the cure did she report at the Bureau des +Constatations Medicales. +</p> + +<p> +The words that I have quoted at the head of +this page were written twenty-four years ago +by an English priest who visited the shrine. +Were he now writing he would no longer say +that Lourdes is a small town. The old town +of Lourdes is, indeed, small, just a bit of a +village in the Pyrenees. But the new Lourdes +that has sprung up as if by magic on the banks +of the Gave, over against the famous Grotto, +has pretensions to rank as a city. It has its +banks, its public buildings, its electric cars, +rows upon rows of stores, though the wares +are almost wholly of a devotional character, +hotels and boarding houses without number, +and a population of about ten thousand souls. +And yet twenty-six years ago, just two years +before our English priest wrote his account, +there was not, as an old inhabitant told us, a +stone upon a stone of the modern, and, for the +most part, handsome buildings that one sees +to-day. +</p> + +<p> +Nature has lavished her charms on this +favoured spot. Nothing is wanting of all that can +please the eye or soothe and rest the mind in +natural scenery. Lofty hills in front and in +the rear, some bare and bald, others clothed +with forest to their very tops; in the +background, the snow-clad peaks and spurs of the +Pyrenees; at your feet a narrow valley, +studded with stately trees and carpeted with +green-sward; and ever in your ears, though the eye +wearied with gazing, should seek repose, the +rushing waters of the Gave. Surely a fitting +entourage for this most gracious of all our +Lady's shrines! +</p> + +<p> +The waters of the Gave, how swiftly and +noisily they flow, flinging themselves passionately +upon the rude rocks that would stay their +onward course! The murmur of the Gave has +been in my ears from a boy, for I seemed to +hear the rushing of its waters when in boyhood's +days I lingered over the pages of Henri +Lasserre's fascinating story of the wonders of +Lourdes. And to-day as I sit on the bank and +gaze down upon the swift stream that flings +itself into the Adour to mingle finally with the +waters of the mighty Atlantic, the Gave of my +boyish dreams is a reality. It is something +more. It is an emblem at once and a sermon—an +emblem of the surging multitude of pilgrims +which ever keeps streaming to the Grotto +of our Lady, flowing hither from the ends of +the earth; a sermon on the true purpose of life. +See how this eager mountain stream, like a +thing of life, runs joyously to its rest in the +bosom of the great ocean! Not less surely +was it meant by Nature to find there its repose +than we are meant by the Author of Nature to +find our repose in Him. Yet we linger by the +way and loiter, while the Gave leaps onward, +oh, how swiftly and how surely! to its goal +and the home of its rest. +</p> + +<p> +But the Gave has not always been at this +point the deep, narrow, noisy stream that it is +to-day. Once it roamed at will over its rocky +bed, making for itself a wider and more +spacious pathway. Now stout stone walls fence +it in and confine it to a narrow channel, and it +frets and foams as does the wild beast of the +forest when imprisoned behind iron bars. In +these hot July days, too, the Gave runs deeper +and swifter, fed by the melting snows of the +Pyrenees. But on that February day, forty-two +years ago, it was a feeble and mild-mannered +stream. Bernadette and her two little +companions crossed the main stream by the +stone bridge. But a narrow side channel still +separated them from the Grotto in the rocks +of Massabielle, where was plenty of the drift +wood they were in search of. Stooping down +slowly to pull off her shoes and stockings with +a view of wading this stream, Bernadette +heard a noise as of a sudden gust of wind. +"It was a calm grey day, and not a twig of +the poplars was stirring, yet she felt certain +that she had heard the rush of air. She +stooped down again, and again the mysterious +current startled her. This time the child +looked up towards the niche-shaped cave. To +her amazement a clear bright light issued from +the aperture, in the midst of which stood a +woman more wondrously beautiful than any +one Bernadette had ever seen, or could have +imagined. She was clad in white, with a long +white veil falling over her shoulders; a blue +scarf encircled her waist and reached to her +knees, and upon either bare foot was a +gold-coloured rose." I am quoting from my little +book. But the story has been often told and +is trite now, though it can never be commonplace. +</p> + +<p> +The number of pilgrims who visit Lourdes +yearly is estimated at two hundred and fifty +thousand. They come from every country +under the sun. The two ends of America are +wide enough asunder, yet the fact of our +being from the same continent is a real bond +between ourselves and our fellow-pilgrims from +Brazil, whom we meet here at the shrine of our +Lady as we met them at Paray le Monial and +again in the audience chamber of the Vatican. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap0108"></a></p> + +<p class="t3"> +LOURDES, SATURDAY, JULY 21. +</p> + +<p> +Every day since our coming here has +been for us a day of prayer, and, at the +same time, a day of rest—rest for body +and for soul. There is something in the very +atmosphere of Lourdes which inspires devotion +and invites repose. Every morning the +pilgrims assist at Mass in the Grotto and many +receive Holy Communion. We all of us take +our places, too, in the procession of the Blessed +Sacrament, and at night, in the torch-light +procession. This morning at ten o'clock we had +Solemn High Mass in the Grotto, with a +Canadian as celebrant, Canadians as ministers +at the altar, and Canadians as singers. The +service was, of course, in the open air, and +very solemn and impressive it was. While we +joined in the chant of the Mass, the wind in +the trees around about us seemed to sing an +accompaniment, and the hoarse-sounding Gave +lent its deep bass voice as it sped on its way to +the ocean. +</p> + +<p> +To-morrow at eleven o'clock we bid adieu +to Lourdes. With Lourdes our pilgrimage +ends. At Paris, where we are due Monday +evening, our pilgrim party breaks up. Some +will stay there for a season, others will sail +from Liverpool on the following Thursday, +and yet others will visit parts of Scotland, +Ireland, Belgium, or of France itself, before +turning their steps homeward. Of this number +is the present writer. But here at Lourdes, as +I have said, our pilgrimage ends. And so +from Lourdes, from this sweet shrine of Our +Lady by the sounding waters of the Gave, let +me send after its fellows this last leaf from +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap03"></a></p> + +<h2> +JOTTINGS OF A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. +</h2> + +<p> +Leaving Liverpool with its din and +smoke behind, we begin our journey by +rail, through the northwestern part of +England toward the Scottish border. It is +near the end of July, and the weather, for +England, is hot. But coming as we do direct from +the stifling heat of Paris, we find it cool by +comparison. We are travelling by fast express, +and can catch but passing glimpses of the towns +and hamlets, the broad farms and comfortable +homesteads, of Old England. Now we are +dashing through one of the many manufacturing +towns with which the land is studded. +There are long rows of red brick houses, with +here and there a huge chimney belching forth +black smoke. The next moment we are once +more in the open country. On either hand as +far as the eye can reach, are great stretches of +farmland and green pastures where cattle are +grazing. The grain is ripening in the fields, +and ever and anon there comes, through the +open window of the car, the sweet savour of +new-mown hay. As we go further north the +country grows more rugged. Dark ravines +open at our feet, and shaggy hills frown down +upon us. By three o'clock we have passed +Carlisle, once the great stronghold of England +against the fierce incursions of its warlike +neighbour to the north. Soon after we cross +the border and find ourselves on Scottish soil. +It is the land of our fathers— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,<br> + Land of the mountain and the flood,—<br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +a land of stirring memories and teeming with +romance. It is not without emotion, therefore, +that we enter it for the first time. Nor +does the dense Scotch mist into which we run +before reaching Edinburgh damp our enthusiasm +in the least—though we should not be able +to say as much for our persons were we +exposed to it but for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +We spend the Sunday in Edinburgh. That +droll Frenchman who writes under the pen-name +of Max O'Rell, defines a Scotchman as +one who keeps the Sabbath and everything +else he can lay his hands on! Well, at any +rate he keeps the Sabbath, and that is more +than many a Frenchman does. For the people +of Edinburgh the Sunday is still emphatically a +day of rest. To a Protestant gentleman from +Toronto who had just come from Paris himself +and put up at the same hotel with us, we +remark upon the contrast between the Parisian +Sunday and the solemn quiet of the Scotch +Sabbath. "Quite so," he says, "but you should +have been here yesterday while the Labor +Parade was passing through the streets. You +would have seen one after another of the men +dropping out of the procession in a state of +beastly intoxication. In all the time that I was +in Paris I saw no single instance of such +drunkenness." He had come away from Paris +greatly edified, and was leaving Edinburgh +utterly disgusted and horrified at what he had +seen. Sobriety was more to him than Sunday +observance. And yet human frailty may +account for drunkenness, and palliate it at least +in part. But the violation of the Sunday has +its root cause, it is to be feared, in a spirit of +contempt for the ordinances of the Christian +Religion. +</p> + +<p> +Edinburgh is not only the capital of Scotland, +but the queen of Scottish cities. There +are few finer cities, indeed, in all the world. +Its broad and well paved streets are kept +scrupulously clean. The buildings, almost all of +them of granite, are tall and stately. And the +site with its picturesque setting of hills is +superb. On one of these hills, west from Prince +street and Scott's Monument, stands the historic +Castle like a grim sentinel guarding the +approaches of the City. Climbing the hill and +entering by the draw-bridge, we see, among +other interesting relics of the past, the Chapel +of the saintly Queen Margaret, and stand in +the room where the ill-fated Mary Stuart took +refuge after the murder of Rizzio, and where +was born James the Sixth of Scotland and the +First of England. In another room hard by +we gaze upon the ancient Regalia of Scotland, +"worthy of a nation's pride and jealous +preservation." +</p> + +<p> +The run from Edinburgh to Glasgow by rail +is made in a little more than one hour. Our +route lies through Lanarkshire, famed for its +coal mines and iron foundries. Glasgow, with +a population of over one million, is the second +city of the Empire. Unlike Edinburgh, it has +no pretentions to beauty. Still, it has some +fine streets and very beautiful parks. It +contains, too, not a few notable buildings, and +there are in and around it many places of +great historic interest. Its water supply, +brought from Loch Katrine, thirty miles +distant, is not surpassed perhaps by that of any +other city in the world. +</p> + +<p> +Early in the morning we leave Glasgow for +Oban by boat. Steaming down the Clyde, we +get a good view of the docks and of the ships +both great and small that are a-building on +either bank. A few miles down the river is +Douglas Castle, and a little beyond, on the +summit of a rock 260 feet in height, rises +Dumbarton Castle, famed in Scottish story. We +touch at Greenock and Dunoon, and thence +make for Rothesay, the capital of Bute. On +our left, as we near the Bute shore, we see +Mount Stuart House, the seat of the Marquis. +</p> + +<p> +Leaving Rothesay, the steamer runs up the +Kyles or narrows (from the Gaelic caolas, a +strait) of Bute, round the northern end of the +island, and down the other side towards +Ardlamont Point on the mainland. The scenery on +this strait is very fine, wooded mountain, loch, +and glen blending their varied beauties into +one picturesque whole. Rounding Ardlamont +Point, we steer straight for the harbour of +Tarbert, on the coast of Kintyre. Away to the +south, and but dimly visible in the haze, is the +island of Arran. From Tarbert we proceed +up Loch Fyne to Ardrishaig, 180 miles from +Glasgow, at the head of the Crinan Canal. +This canal, which connects Loch Fyne with +Loch Crinan, and is nine miles in length, runs, +for a great part of the way, along the base of +forest-clad hills. +</p> + +<p> +By this time, unluckily for us, it has begun +to rain heavily, which mars our enjoyment of +the rest of the trip to Oban. As the boat stops +for the opening of the locks of the canal, we +hear people on shore talking in Gaelic and +realize that we have left the Lowlands behind. In +spite of the rain two little barefooted girls and +a little boy who has shoes on (shame on him!) +follows us from lock to lock, selling milk by +the glassful to the passengers. The children +are quite brave at first, and stare at us, as much +as to say, "What do we care what these English +strangers say or think of us." But the +moment I speak to them in Gaelic, they grow +shy of me, and the poor little girls look as if +they were ashamed to be seen in their bare feet. +</p> + +<p> +Leaving Crinan, the western terminus of +the canal, we have on our right the mainland +of Argyle; on our left are the islands of Jura +and Scarba. Between the two is the famous +whirlpool of Corryvrechan, the roar of which +may be heard at a distance of many miles. +Away in the west, beyond Ross of Mull, lies +far-famed Iona, with Ulva dark and Colonsay +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + And all the group of islets gay<br> + That guard famed Staffa round.<br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Presently we descry Dunollie Castle, once the +chief stronghold of the Lords of Lorn, and +soon after land in Oban. +</p> + +<p> +Oban has been called the Charing Cross of +the Highlands. And such it is in the sense of +being the great distributing centre for tourists +and travellers by rail or boat. But in every +other sense how unlike is this quiet little town, +with its cosy harbour and crescent beach, where +the wavelets play at hide-and-seek with the +pebbles, to the bustling railway station in the +heart of the biggest and busiest of all earth's +cities! During the summer months this cosy +harbour is crowded with pleasure yachts from +all parts of the world, and the hotels that line +the pebbly beach are thronged with tourists +from every land. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + For Oban is a dainty place<br> + In distant or in nigh lands,<br> + No town delights the tourist race<br> + Like Oban in the Highlands.<br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +So wrote the late Professor Blackie, himself a +frequent visitor in his day to this charming +resort on the shore of the western sea. +</p> + +<p> +At Oban in the early morning we take the +'Gael' steamship for far Gairloch in +Rosshire. Dunollis Castle is on our right as we +steam out of Oban Bay and make for Lismore +Light, on the extreme southern end of the +island of that name. Thence our way lies +through the Sound of Mull to Ardnamurchan +Point. The scenery along this Sound, where +you have the mountains of Mull on the one +hand, and on the other those of misty Morven, +is surpassingly grand. Here on the Morven +shore, in Ardtornish Castle, ancient seat of the +Lords of the Isles, is laid the opening scene of +Scott's well-known poem, which begins with +the lines: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "Wake, maid of Lorn," the minstrels sung.<br> + Thy rugged halls, Ardtornish, rung,<br> + And the dark seas thy towers that lave,<br> + Heaved on the beach a softer wave,<br> + As 'mid the tuneful choir to keep<br> + The diapason of the deep.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +Near the other end of the sound is Tobermory +(Mary's Well), the chief seaport of +Mull, a very pretty town, in whose land-locked +harbour ships of any tonnage find securest +anchorage. This port has for us a very special +interest, as we have reason to believe that +from hence our grand-parents sailed in the +dawn of the century to make for themselves a +home, beyond the stormy Atlantic, in what was +then the wild woods of Nova Scotia. +</p> + +<p> +All day long, from early morn till set of +sun, we follow our sinuous course through the +sounds and lochs and bays of this western sea, +calling here or there to land or take on +passengers. After leaving Torbermory while +rounding Ardnamurchan Point, and until we +gain the shelter of towering Scaur-Eigg, a +perpendicular cliff some five hundred feet high at +the southwestern extremity of the island of +that name, we are in the open Atlantic, with +no land to the west of us nearer than America. +North of Ardnamurchan lies Moidart, where +Prince Charlie landed on the 25th of July, +1745, and whence after many wanderings and +hair-breadth escapes he sailed, on the 20th +September of the following year, a hopeless and +broken man. +</p> + +<p> +From Eigg we cross over to Arisaig. +Judging by what one can see of it from the +deck of a steamer, it is far from being as fertile +as the district that has been named after it +in Nova Scotia. But perhaps there is no other +spot on the western coast of Scotland where +the view landward and seaward is so varied +and so magnificent. +</p> + +<p> +After landing passengers at Arisaig, we +steam along the coast of Morar on the mainland, +having on our left the islands of Eigg, +Rum, and Canna, and in front of us the +southern extremity of Skye. Soon we enter the +Sound of Sleat, and passing through the Kyle +of Lochalsh, hug the eastern or inner shore of +Skye till we reach Portree. It is a perfect day. +The sun shines brightly, and the face of the +laughing waters is gently fanned by the +summer winds. And the scenery is as grand as it +is diversified. Leaving Portree (King's Port), +so-called from having been visited by James +V. of Scotland while cruising round these isles, +we enter once more the Sound of Raasay. On +the Skye shore, near the little island of Holm, +is to be seen the entrance to a cave famed as +one of the hiding places of the unfortunate +Prince Charlie. Presently we pass out of the +Sound of Raasay and enter the Minch. On +the left, beyond the northern promontory of +Skye, some of the Hebridean Islands are +visible in the dim distance. Behind us the +mountains of Skye rise in gloomy grandeur. +As one gazes upon them, there comes to one's +mind these words of MacCrimmon's Lament, +done into English by Sir Walter Scott: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Farewell to each cliff, on which breakers are foaming,<br> + Farewell to each dark glen in which red deer are roaming;<br> + Farewell lovely Skye, to lake, mountain, and river—<br> + Return, return, return, we shall never.<br> + (Cha till, cha till, cha till sinn tuille.)<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +Gairloch has a fine hotel—with prices to +match. It is a charming place, this quiet +hamlet by the sea, but lonely withal. For here, +away up north, one has that sense of isolation, +of being cut off from the great world, which +is itself twin-sister to the feeling of loneliness. +</p> + +<p> +We leave Gairloch early in the morning for +Inverness, travelling by coach for 30 miles to +Achnasheen (Field of the Fairies) and thence +by rail. In the first five miles the road runs, +part of the time, through a fine forest of +larches, which seem to be related to our +juniper tree, but are very tall and stately. On +emerging from the wood and beginning the +descent of a steep hill, we come of a sudden +upon a loch which seems to surpass all the +Scottish lochs in the wild and rugged grandeur +of the scenery along its shores. It was +some such sight as here greets our eyes that +inspired Sir Walter's muse to sing,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Stranger; if e'er thine ardent step hath traced<br> + The northern realms of ancient Caledon,<br> + Where the proud Queen of Wilderness hath placed,<br> + By lake and cataract her lonely throne;<br> + Sublime but sad delight thy soul hath known,<br> + Gazing on pathless glen and mountain high,<br> + Listing where from the cliffs the torrents thrown<br> + Mingle their echoes with the eagle's cry,<br> + And with the sounding lake, and with the moaning sky.<br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +For where more fittingly than here by Loch +Maree, on some lonely mountain peak, could +the Queen of Wilderness set up her throne? +Here, in sooth, are pathless glen and mountain +high and torrents flung from cliffs. And the +very spirit of Desolation seems to brood over +the place. You may travel miles on this loch +without seeing a single human habitation. +Steep mountains, bare of trees and even of +vegetation, shut it in on all sides. The loftiest +peak in Ruadh Stac Mor, which rises to a +height of 3,309 feet; but there are several +other peaks almost as high. Half way up the +loch is a summer hotel for tourists, where +Queen Victoria stayed a week something more +than a score of years ago. Over against this +hotel, near the other side of the loch, is a +wooded islet, called Isle Maree, on which +may be seen the ruins of a monastery, "in +days of yore," says our guide book, "an oasis +of learning in the desert of heathenism." Tradition +has it that the waters of a well on +this little island (mayhap another Tobair +Moire or Mary's Well!) cured insanity—a +tradition which the gentle Quaker poet +Whittier has embalmed in these lines: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Calm on the breast of Isle Maree<br> + A little Well reposes:<br> + A shadow woven of the oak<br> + And willow o'er it closes,<br> + And whoso bathes therein his brow,<br> + With care or madness burning,<br> + Feels once again his healthful thought<br> + And sense of peace returning.<br> + Life's changes vex, its discords stun,<br> + Its glaring sunshine blindeth;<br> + And blest is he who on his way<br> + That fount of healing findeth!<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +I suspect that Loch Maree is an English +corruption of the Gaelic Loch Mairi (Loch +Mary or Mary's Loch). The monks were +ever and everywhere devout clients of the +Blessed Mary. It is not at all unlikely, +therefore, that the community of monks who +anciently made their home in this romantic spot +named both the loch and the little isle on which +they built their monastery after their Heavenly +Patroness. +</p> + +<p> +On leaving Loch Maree the road follows +the bed of a brook for some distance up a dark +glen. On either hand are "rising mountains +red with heather bells," on the slopes of which +the hardy Highland sheep are grazing. Once +the summit of the ridge is gained, it is down +hill to Achnasheen, where we take the train +for Inverness. Our way for several miles lies +through a wilderness, but all at once we come +upon a lovely strath, in as high a state of +cultivation as any district we have seen in the +Lowlands or even in England. It looks all the +more beautiful by contrast with the barren and +desolate region through which we have just +passed. The name of it I cannot for the +moment recall. But the valley itself as I saw +it, with the bloom of summer upon it, and the +light of the westering sun, is vividly present to +my imagination. +</p> + +<p> +Inverness, at the mouth of the River Ness, +is, after Edinburgh, the handsomest city in +Scotland. Prof. Blackie sings its praises in +the following sonnet: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Some sing of Rome, and some of Florence; I<br> + Will sound thy Highland praise, fair Inverness;<br> + And till some worthier bard thy thanks may buy,<br> + Hope for the greater, but not spurn the less.<br> + All things that make a city fair are thine,<br> + The rightful queen and sovereign of this land<br> + Of bens and glens, and valiant men, who shine<br> + Brightest in Britain's glory roll, and stand<br> + Best bulwarks of her bounds—wide-circling sweep<br> + Of rich green slopes and brown empurpled brae,<br> + And flowering mead, and far inwinding bay,<br> + Temple and tower are thine, and castled keep,<br> + And ample stream, that round fair gardened isles<br> + Rolls its majestic current, wreathed in smiles.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +Scotland, as a glance at a map of the globe +will show, is several degrees farther north than +Nova Scotia. Up here at Inverness, during the +first week of August, the twilight lasts till +after 10 p.m. Towards the end of June, when +the day is at its longest, the sun does no more +than dip for a few hours below the horison, +and at no time of the night does its light fade +away altogether from the northern sky. +</p> + +<p> +Four miles from Inverness is Culloden +Moor. But we visit not that "field of the +dead" so fraught with saddening memories +to every Highlander. +</p> + +<p> +Leaving the capital of the Highlands, we go +by boat to Fort William through the Caledonian +Canal. This passage is sixty-two miles +long. There are twenty-four miles of canal, +and thirty-eight of natural lake, namely, Loch +Ness (24 miles), Loch Oich (4 miles), and +Loch Lochy (10 miles). On these lochs and +along the stretches of land between them the +scenery is of surpassing beauty. On either +side is a range of purple hills rising in places +to a great height. Now they close in about us +as if to dispute our passage. The next moment +they fall back and form into line in the rear, +keeping ward over the great highway of waters +that cleaves the land of the Scottish Gael in +twain and weds two seas together. And now +Ben Nevis (4,406 ft.) looms afar off on the +left, lording it over all the hills. At his feet +and under his very shadow stands Fort William, +known to the old folk as An Gearristan. +Along the plain below rolls the Lochy River +till it empties its waters into Loch Linnhe. +Those glens that lie at the foot of the +mountain range northeastward from Ben Nevis are +Ruaidh and Spean, along the rivers of the same +name. And this is Lochaber, "synonym for +an exile's wail." Children we of those sad-eyed +exiles, is it any wonder that our hearts +beat more quickly as we gaze on the heather-clad +hills now rising before us? Even we, +of the third generation, still feel within us +something of their heart-hunger for the old +home they loved so well—the heart-hunger +which found a voice and still finds an echo in +that saddest of sad refrains, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Lochaber, Lochaber, Lochaber no more,<br> + We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +The Highlands, and the islands on the west +of Scotland, are to-day but sparsely populated. +A hundred years ago these lovely straths and +glens were filled with people. Even the braes +and moorlands, now so bare and barren, +yielded a frugal livelihood to a hardy race of +men whose wants were few and tastes most +simple. To-day whole districts are given over +to sheep and deer. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + In Highland glens 'tis far too oft observed,<br> + That man is chased away and game preserved.<br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +So wrote the Hon. John Bright, in blunt but +honest English fashion. More pathetic is the +tale of desolation as told in Gaelic verse—in +lines of exquisite tenderness and beauty—by +one who is a native of those glens and "to the +manner born"—one who has in our own day +successfully wooed the Highland Muse "'mang +the bonnie Highland heather"—Macleod, the +spirited bard of Skye. I quote two or three +stanzas from his poem, Anns a Ghleann 'san +Robh Mi Og: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Tha na fardaichean 'n an fasaich<br> + Far an d'araicheadh na seoid,<br> + Far'm bu chridheil fuaim an gaire,<br> + Far'm bu chairdeal iad mun bhord;<br> + Far a fhaigheadh coigreach baigh,<br> + Agus anrach bochd a lon;<br> + Ach cha'n fhaigh iad sin's an am so<br> + Anns a' ghleann's an robh mi og.<br> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Chaochail maduinn ait ar n-oige<br> + Mar an ceo air bharr nam beann,<br> + Tha ar cairdean 's ar luchd-eolais<br> + Air a fogradh bhos us thall;<br> + Tha cuid eile dbuibh nach gluais,<br> + Tha'n na cadal buan fodh'n fhod,<br> + 'Bha gun uaill, gun fhuath, gun anthlachd,<br> + Anns a' ghleann's an robh iad og.<br> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Mo shoraidh leis gach cuairteig,<br> + Leis gach bruachaig agus cos:<br> + Mu'n tric an robh mi 'cluaineis<br> + 'N am 'bhi buachailleachd nam bo—<br> + 'Nuair a thig mo reis gu 'ceann,<br> + Agus feasgar fann mo lo,<br> + B'e mo mhiann a bhi's an am sin<br> + Anns a' ghleann's an robh mi og.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +The song has been done into English, or +rather into mixed English and broad Scotch, +but it has lost somewhat in the rendering. The +foregoing stanzas run thus in the translation: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Now in ruins are the dwellin's,<br> + Where ance lived a gallant clan;<br> + Their's was aye the friendly welcome,<br> + Their's was aye the open han';<br> + There the stranger and the puir<br> + Found a place at the fire-en';<br> + Now alas! there's nane tae greet them<br> + In my bonnie native glen.<br> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Like the mist upon the mountain<br> + Youth's glad morn of promise died,<br> + And our kinsfolk and acquaintance,<br> + They are scattered far and wide;<br> + Some of them are sleepin' soun'<br> + Neath the shadow of the ben,<br> + That were ance baith leal and hearty<br> + In their bonnie native glen.<br> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + But now fare ye weel each fountain,<br> + Each sweet dell an' grassy brae,<br> + Where fu' aft the kye I herded,<br> + In my boyhood's happy day.<br> + When life's gloamin' settles down,<br> + An' my race is at an en',<br> + 'Tis my wish that death should find me<br> + In my bonnie native glen.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +Wherever you travel in the Western Highlands +you hear Gaelic spoken. And ever as it +strikes upon your ears, there arises within +you—at least if you happen to be a Highlander +yourself—the question, Will the old tongue +live on here amid the bens and glens that have +echoed with it since immemorial time? Or is it +doomed to die out in this its ancient home? It +is hard to say. For my own part, I believe +Gaelic will be spoken in the Highlands so long +as there are Highlanders there. But I don't +know how long that will be. Certainly they +are far fewer to-day than they were at the +beginning of the last century. And the country +is becoming more and more a mere summer +resort for tourists and sportsmen. As matters +stand at present there is no future for the +Highland youth in their Highland home. On +growing up to manhood and womanhood, they +drift into the cities of the Lowlands, or cross +the ocean. And ever as they go, their sad +hearts echo the wailing notes of MacCrimmon's +Lament, or Lochaber No More. I wish I +could share the confidence in the ultimate +repeopling of the Highlands that is expressed—perhaps +rather than felt—by the Skye bard already +quoted, in the following lines: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + 'S bidh fhathast a cairdean<br> + Mar bha iad bho chian,<br> + An' duthaich nan ardbheann<br> + An aite nam fiadh;<br> + Gu curanta' laidir,<br> + Gu blath-chridheach fial,<br> + 'S an comhradh gach la<br> + Ann an canan nam Fionn.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +With the Gaelic language there also survives +in the Highlands the hospitable spirit for which +Highlanders, and all Celts indeed, are noted +wherever they are found. But while the +people there give of their Highland cheer to all +who visit them, they have a particularly warm +place in their hearts for "muinntir America," +their kinsmen from across the seas. +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +Leaving Fort William, we go by boat on +Loch Linnhe to Oban. The boat calls at +several places, among them Ballachulish, at the +entrance to Loch Leven, whence we get a +glimpse in the distance of Glencoe. Even on +this bright summers day the narrow pass, +hemmed in by frowning mountains, looks +gloomy and dark—fitting theatre for the black +and fearful tragedy that was enacted there. +</p> + +<p> +From Oban we return to Glasgow through +the Trossachs, part of the way by rail, part +of the way by boat on Loch Lomond and Loch +Katrine, and part of the way by coach between +the lochs. The whole country through which +we pass is classic ground, familiar to every +lover of Scott. To describe the scenery of the +Trossachs, therefore, after the exquisite +word-painting of it in prose and verse that we have +from the pen of Sir Walter, were as "wasteful +and ridiculous excess" as +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,<br> + To add a perfume to the violet.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +As I write these last words the solemn bells +are tolling the death-knell of our beloved +Queen. The whole Empire mourns, and the +grief is heartfelt, for all own and feel to-day +the truth of the lines written by the worthiest +poet laureate of the long and glorious reign +that is now ended, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "Her court was pure; her life serene:<br> + God gave her peace, her land reposed;<br> + A thousand claims to reverence closed<br> + In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen."<br> +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap04"></a></p> + +<h2> +ROME. +</h2> + +<p class="t3"> +A CHRISTMAS REMINISCENCE. +</p> + +<p> +It is not often I am in a reminiscent +mood. Even should the mood come +upon me, I can seldom indulge +it. In this work-a-day world the cares +and duties of the present crowd out the +memories of the past. But ever as the +blessed season of Christmas comes round the +mind is in a measure freed from the tyrant +grasp of the present. And at the approach of +this festival mine loves to go back, swiftly +overleaping the barriers of space and time, to +the dear old City on the Tiber, where I spent +five of the happiest years of my life. I can +remember as distinctly as though it were +yesterday the day when first I set foot in Rome. +It was toward the end of October, 1879. The +sun shone out brightly from the deep blue of +the Italian sky, and the soft, balmy breath of +summer still lingered in the air. From early +morning we had traversed a land of almost +ideal loveliness, now skirting the shores of the +sparkling Mediterranean, now dashing past +villas and vineyards where the air was laden +with the fragrance of the vintage. The sun +was slowly sinking in the west as we passed +Civita Vecchia, the seaport of Rome, and sped +on our way through the dreary waste of the +Roman Campagna. Soon the Alban Hills +loomed up in front, while the line of sea-coast +stretching away on the right was fast fading +from the view. There, where the Tiber flings +its tawny waters into the Mediterranean, once +stood the City of Ostia, the ancient seaport of +Rome, facing, as every student of Virgil +knows, in the far distance, Carthage, Rome's +most dreaded rival while yet she was "dives +opum studiisque asperrima belli." +</p> + +<p> +And now we are within the city walls, the +train draws up to the depot, and I step forth, +a stranger indeed, yet not with the feelings of +one who sets foot in a strange city: for Rome, +though force has made it the capital of United +Italy, is and always will be the capital of +Christendom, the centre from which radiate +the lights of Catholicity over all the earth, and +the home of the pilgrim from every land. +</p> + +<p> +One who goes from America into Europe +realizes that to have crossed the Atlantic is not +merely to have left one part of the habitable +globe and gone into another. It is a passing +from the New World into the Old, in almost +every respect a different world from the one +that is left behind. And in no place as at Rome +is it brought home to one who crosses the ocean +that the Atlantic is not the only gulf that +divides these two worlds. Rome is the typical +city of the Old World, or rather is the Old +World in miniature. There all its most striking +characteristics meet as they do in no other +European city. There you may study old world +customs and the old world life in its many +phases, old world art and architecture, and +above all those old-world monuments and ruins +around which gather a thousand historical +associations. Here rises the Palatine Hill, the +original site and centre of the embryo mistress +of the world, where tradition places the +dwelling of Romulus, and where later stood the +gorgeous palace of the Caesars, whose ruins +still attest its old-time grandeur. Below is the +Roman Forum which once rang with the eloquence +of Cicero, and traversing it from north +to south, the Via Sacra or Sacred Way. At +one end of the Forum is the Mamertine Prison, +a dark and dismal underground dungeon, +where kings led captive by pagan Rome were +strangled or starved to death, and where still +exists the spring which, according to tradition, +St. Peter, imprisoned here under Nero, +miraculously caused to flow in order to baptize +his jailers. At some distance to the south +stands the Colosseum, nearly one-third of a +mile in circumference, and originally containing +seats for 87,000 spectators. Here, in the +arena, the scene of gladiatorial combats, +thousands of Christian martyrs fought the +good fight and won the crown. A quaint +prophetic saying, which dates from the 8th +century, has it that +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + While stands the Colosseum, Rome shall stand,<br> + When falls the Colosseum, Rome shall fall,<br> + And when Rome falls, with it shall fall the World.<br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +But I should never end if I were to speak of all +the monuments of both Pagan and Christian +Antiquity that make Rome the connecting link +between the ancient and the modern world. +</p> + +<p> +The Rome of to-day is not the Rome of +twenty years ago. The tourist who wandered +and mused among the ruins in and around +it then would scarcely know it now, so vast +is the change that has come over it. Your +matter-of-fact modern man, who scowls at +antiquity and lives in and for the present only, +would say that the change has been greatly for +the better. Streets have been widened and +straightened, numberless new ones have been +opened, and the wide space east and south of +the Esquiline Hill, once studded with venerable +ruins, is now occupied by rows of huge +brick buildings, inferior in make and unsightly. +In a word, the old Rome, amid whose magnificent +ruins still abode the genius of Antiquity, +has all but disappeared, and the new Rome, a +third-rate modern city, shorn of much of its +historical interest, has usurped its place. +"Rome in twenty or thirty years," wrote +Mr. Frederick Harrison recently in the +"Fortnightly Review," "has become like any other +European city—big, noisy, vulgar, overgrown, +Frenchified and syndicate-ridden." +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Rome, Rome thou art no more<br> + As thou hast been!<br> + On thy seven hills of yore<br> + Thou sat'st a queen.<br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Newman had written of it, on visiting it for +the first time in the early thirties of last +century: "And now what can I say of Rome, +but that it is the first of all cities, and that all +I ever saw are but as dust (even dear old +Oxford inclusive) compared with its majesty and +glory?" It has certainly since then lost much +of its charm for the tourist and the +antiquarian. But the majesty and glory that so +impressed Newman—these no spoiler's hand can +pluck from the brow of the queenly city on the +Tiber. +</p> + +<p> +It is not merely the glamour antiquity +throws around it that makes Rome a centre of +attraction. In the wondrous works of art +gathered into it from every side, in the number +and magnificence of its churches and shrines, +in the prestige it possesses as the capital of the +Christian world for eighteen hundred years, it +stands peerless among the cities of the earth. +Anything like a detailed account of the art +treasures in the Vatican alone would fill +volumes. Almost every church in Rome, too, +and every palace, has its works of art, its +paintings, mosaics, and sculptures, of priceless +value. And as for the churches, no words can +fittingly describe them. "They could not have +been in any place but Rome, which has turned +the materials and buildings of the Empire to +the purposes of religion." The exterior, save +in the case of the large basilicas, is not +striking; their beauty, like the glory of the king's +daughter, is within. St. Peter's, of course, +stands apart from and above them all, a world +of wonders in itself. The first visit does not +reveal its vastness nor the exquisite grace +and delicacy of its proportions. It is only by +visiting it again and again that one can, so +to speak, take it all in, if indeed one can +ever do so. There is this peculiarity about it, +too, that it has what, for want of a better +word to convey the idea, I am tempted to +call a climate of its own. In winter, when +Rome is swept by the tramontana, a penetrating +and chilling wind which blows for days +at a time from the snow-capped Apennines, +making life scarce worth living in the fireless +apartments of the Roman dwellings, you will +find warmth and comfort within St. Peter's. +And in vain will you seek amid the shady +groves of the Roman villas for a tithe of the +delicious coolness that dwells within the +charmed circle of its walls all through the +broiling heat of the summer months in Rome. +</p> + +<p> +And what of the festival of Christmas in the +Eternal City? In September, 1870, Victor +Emmanuel's troops entered Rome by the +breach of Porta Pia, and with their coming in +the old-time Christmas and the old-time Easter +went out. The faithful Romans have not had +a Merry Christmas since. The Pope used to +proceed in person to celebrate the midnight +Mass at St. Mary Major's, where is preserved +the Crib in which the Infant Saviour was laid +on the night of His Nativity. With the +exception of the Easter celebrations, it was the +most imposing ceremony that could be witnessed +at Rome in those days. The Saviour's +Crib is always borne in procession through the +church of St. Mary Major's on Christmas Eve. +In some of the churches, and even in private +houses, the scene of the Christ Child's birth in +Bethlehem is represented in a wonderfully +artistic and life-like way. One of these +representations, which are got up mainly for the +children, is to be seen in the church of Santa Maria +in Aracoeli, situated on the Capitoline Hill, +where once stood a temple of Jove. Hither we +students of the Propaganda used to wend our +way, during the days within the octave of +Christmas, to listen to the "children preachers +of Aracoeli." These little ones, from five to +ten years of age, standing on a platform facing +the Christmas Crib, lifted their fresh young +voices in greeting and prayer to their new-born +King. It recalled the scene described in +Matt. 21:15-16: the children crying in the +temple, "Hosanna to the Son of David," and +Jesus saying to those who would rebuke them, +"Yea, have you never read, Out of the mouths +of infants and sucklings thou has perfected +praise." +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap05"></a></p> + +<h2> +THE ROSES OF ASSISI. +</h2> + +<p> +In The Ave Maria, of February 8, 1908, +the noted Danish writer, Johannes +Jorgensen, tells of a visit to Assisi, and +makes this passing allusion to the singular +phenomenon also alluded to in The Diary of a +Pilgrim: "Then there is the rose garden +where the bushes are strangely flecked as if +with spots of blood." When the present writer +stood beside this little plot, in the early days of +July, 1900, the roses were not in bloom—it was +past their season in Italy—but the bushes were +in leaf, of course. Strictly speaking, it is not +the bushes that bear the flecks of red, but the +roses and the leaves. The impression made +upon one is not soon effaced. It looks for all +the world as if those leaves had been sprinkled +with blood. Here and there a leaf seems to +have caught a drop, a few, two or three, which +left a crimson stain, while most show a fleckless +green. But this is not the most striking phase +of the phenomenon. It has passed into a +proverb that there is no rose without its thorn, +though Milton, in a flight of fancy, found in +our lost paradise, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.<br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +But under the lovely sky of Italy and under +the shadow of the Umbrian hills, in fair +Assisi, famed forever as the birthplace and early +home of the Poverello, grow roses without +thorns. The writer felt the bushes with his +hand, and proved them thornless. What is +more, our little pilgrim group, of whom some +have since gone on their long pilgrimage, were +told on that July day, seven years ago, by the +Prior of the Franciscan Monastery, a true son +of Saint Francis if appearances count for +aught, that time and time again was the +experiment made of transplanting those bushes, +and that they grew up with thorns and with +stainless leaves. Here is the legend, if legend +that can be called, which Nature seems to +vouch for, copied from a leaflet, enclosing a +spray of the rose leaves now brown with the +years, which the writer brought with him +from Assisi: +</p> + +<p> +"One bitter winter's night, S. Francis being +sorely tempted by the devil to lessen his +austerities, overcame the evil one by throwing +himself into a thicket of briers, and rolling himself +in it till his body was all torn and bleeding. +At the same moment the briers were changed +into rose trees in full bloom, and a heavenly +brightness shone around, and angels came to +lead S. Francis to the Church of the Portiuncula, +where Our Lord appeared to him in +Person accompanied by His Mother and a +heavenly host, and granted him the Indulgence +of the Portiuncula. The miraculous rose +bushes have no thorns, their leaves are stained +with spots like blood in May, and can be seen +in the Garden of the Friary adjoining the +Portiuncula at the village of Santa Maria degli +Angeli which is close to the Station of Assisi +in Italy." +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap06"></a></p> + +<h2> +FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES. +</h2> + +<p class="t3"> +DECEMBER 10, '08. +</p> + +<p> +We leave New York at noon. It is a +perfect winter's day—the air cold and +crisp, the sun brightly shining. There +are all manner of craft in the North River, or +Hudson, and our big ship makes her way +among them with leisurely dignity. On our +starboard is Jersey City; on the port side, the +buildings of Old Manhattan raise their giant +forms, fearfully and wonderfully tall. +Presently we pass by the statue of Liberty, and +leave the great metropolis of the New World +behind. A marvellous city is New York, +marching forward with gigantic strides to the +forefront of the world's cities. Even now it +is second only to London, and in ways not a +few it is first. We pass out of the roar of its +traffic, away from its teeming, busy life, and +the restful ocean takes us to its heaving +bosom. +</p> + +<p> +"Our next port of call is Boston," says one +passenger to another standing near him, just as +we are getting out to sea. "Not at all," +rejoins the other, "this boat doesn't call at +Boston." An officer of the ship, who is +standing by, is appealed to, and he bears out the +first speaker. The news is received with +surprise amounting almost to consternation. +Hardly one of the passengers knew of this +change in our programme of travel. Back +to Boston; it is like going back home again! +But to Boston we steer our course. Off Cape +Cod, miles and miles out at sea, men are fishing +in their dories. We pass within fifty yards of +one, but so intent is he upon his work that he +does not as much as cast one look at us. After +a little we pick up our pilot, and begin +threading our way through the narrow entrance to +Boston harbour. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +DECEMBER 11. +</p> + +<p> +Our ship is docked at Charlestown. We +go ashore, take an "L" road car at City +Square, and speedily reach Boston. Our +friends in the city, to whom we bade farewell +a few days before, are almost thunderstruck +at seeing us. They can scarce believe their +eyes. We seem to have dropped upon them +from the skies, or rather to have been spirited +back through space from the ocean. A few +words clear up the mystery. Next morning +(Saturday) we say an early Mass, and hasten +back on board. But the good ship "Cretic" +is in no hurry to put to sea. She lingers for a +full hour beyond the allotted time. We could +not have missed her if we tried. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +DECEMBER 12. +</p> + +<p> +It is snowing heavily as we steam slowly +out of Boston harbour. We drop our pilot, +and at noon have the lightship abeam. At +last we are fairly under way, but so thickly +falls the snow that we move along at little more +than half-speed, and the steamer's whistle +keeps blowing as in a fog. After an hour or +two we run out of the snowstorm, and the +whistling ceases. A tugboat inward bound, +towing three huge barges, is the last object we +descry this day, for darkness soon settles upon +the scene. +</p> + +<p> +This evening I sit and listen dreamily to the +soft accents of the Italian tongue. One or two +of the saloon passengers are Italian and the +ship's doctor is a native of the land of sunshine +and song. It is twenty-five years since I dwelt +in that land, but those intonations strike the +ear and those inimitable gestures the eye as +familiarly as if it were but yesterday. What a +wonderful thing is memory! How it bridges +the years, and brings the dead past to life +again! By it we reverse the poet's process, and +"stretch a hand through time to catch" the +forms of things long passed away. +</p> + +<p> +"Vedi Napoli e poi Mori." This, my +Italian friend tells me, is the original of the +saying that runs in English: "See Naples +and die." As you approach Naples, Mount +Vesuvius rises in the rear, and beyond it is +the little town of Mori. The original saying +is, "See Naples and then Mori." But as it +happens that "mori" is also the imperative of +the verb "morire"—"to die," a play upon the +word gives the meaning, "See Naples and +then die"—as if no place else worth seeing +were left in all the wide world. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +DECEMBER 13. +</p> + +<p> +Our first Sunday at sea, the third of Advent. +We have passed from the region of snow and +sleet, and the change is welcome. The morning +breaks bright and clear, and as the day +wears on it grows distinctly warmer. The sun +shines out of a cloudless sky and the air is +balmy as in a June day. While I write the +thermometer out on the promenade deck shows +56 degrees in the shade. Frost and snow are +things of the past—things of the land we have +left behind. +</p> + +<p> +Not having a portable altar, we are unable +to say Mass. There are more than seven +hundred persons in the steerage, mostly Italians +seeking "la bella patria"—their own lovely +homeland. I arrange with the captain to have +a service for them at 3 p.m. The second-class +saloon being too small, we hold the service +under an awning on the deck. Dressed in +cassock and with my rochet on—for the very +first time—I kneel upon the main hatch and +say aloud in Latin the Rosary and Litany of +the Blessed Virgin, which they all answer in +the same tongue. These people, I may remark +by the way, are all taught from childhood +to say those prayers in the language of +the Church. Prayers over, I address them a +few words in Italian, the season and the +occasion furnishing a theme. Exiles are we +from home, seeking a fatherland afar, and +One has come down from that fatherland +to raise us up and to lead us on. As we cross +the sea of life, not always calm and untroubled +as the one we sail to-day, we must pause from +time to time to lift up our eyes and fix them on +the eternal truths that shine like stars upon +our pathway. We must prepare for the advent +of the Sun of Justice, and from the lesser +lights turn our gaze longingly to the bright +morning Star that heralds His rising. Such +is the sum of what I said, but I must own that +it sounds much better in this English summary +than it did in such poor Italian as I could +muster. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +DECEMBER 14. +</p> + +<p> +At noon the log reads: +</p> + +<p> + Lat. Long. Weather Remarks<br> + 41.34 56.28 Fresh gale: W. SW.<br> + Dis. 317 SW. S. S. W., rough<br> + quarterly sea.<br> + Average Speed: 13.49<br> +</p> + +<p> +We have run into a storm, or it has run in +upon us. "Fresh gale" means a wind blowing +50 or 60 miles an hour. But our ship is +very steady. Still there is a good deal of +motion—of that queer, all-round, uncertain, +miserable motion so apt to induce sea-sickness. +My companion, though he has been so seldom +to sea, is a better sailor than I. As for me, I +feel that I could very easily be quite sick if I +wanted to. But I don't want to, and up to a +certain point one can fight this sickness off. +My chief occupation all day is fighting off +seasickness. The wild winds, the wailing sea-waves, +the reeling, staggering ship keep telling +me it is of no use; that I had better crawl into +my berth and give up the uneven struggle. But +I hold out in spite of all of them. As I write +this in the steamer's library at 6 p.m. the +battle is still on and the issue somewhat doubtful. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +DECEMBER 15. +</p> + +<p> +The battle is fought and won—thanks to +the abating of the storm and a calmer sea. +The weather to-day is fine and warm—58 +degrees in the shade. It was 68 degrees +yesterday, and the mugginess of the atmosphere +made it unpleasant. For me, indeed, it is +never too pleasant on board ship. I have an +uneasy feeling that the most one can hope for +is a truce, and that the battle with sea-sickness +may have to be fought over again at any +moment. Under such circumstances writing is +not easy. +</p> + +<p> +The sea, the deep mysterious sea, with its +changeful, elusive hues and its passionate +moods! The dominant mood, I fancy, is +melancholy. The sea lifts up its voice only to +weep, and every sea-sound dies away in a sob +or a wail. When the crested waves break into +foam, what are the spray drops but the tears +of the salt sea? It not only yields a grave to +the countless millions that are buried beneath +its waters, but weeps for them ever, and chants +over them an unending requiem. And its +loneliness is beyond words. Mid-ocean seems the +native home of solitude—a solitude that the +passing ship leaves unbroken. What a tale +this lonely, moaning sea could tell of the men +who have sunk into its depths, "unknelled, +uncoffined, and unknown!" But till it gives up +its dead, that tale shall not be told. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +DECEMBER 16. +</p> + +<p> +Late last evening I sat talking in the +smoking-room with a Protestant gentleman from +Minneapolis. Some years ago he visited the +Holy Land, and I was interested in the account +he gave of it. He does not seem to have been +much impressed by the country itself or its +sanctuaries. "The most beautiful sight I saw +in the Holy Land," he declared with evident +sincerity, "was the face of a nun." It was not +the physical, but the spiritual beauty of the +face that struck him and imprinted itself upon +his memory. A beautiful soul beamed out +from it—a soul made beautiful by close +communion with God. "I will feed on God," says +Alexandrine in A Sister's Story, not knowing +very well at the moment what she means. But +she did feed on God, and became beautiful as +an angel, with that beauty which never can +fade. If we would be truly beautiful let us +feed on God the Uncreated Beauty, ever +ancient and ever new. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +DECEMBER 17. +</p> + +<p> +How shall we feed on God? First by +prayer. Not as completely is the fish +immersed in the sea or the bird in the air as +the soul is in God, for He is everywhere, +and "in Him we live, and move, and are." Every +time we breathe we drink in the fresh +air to renew the life of the body; every time +we pray, if we pray aright, we draw down +the grace of God to give new life to the soul. +And as when a man ceases to breathe we know +that the life is gone out of him, so when a man +ceases to pray we may know that his soul is +dead within him. But there is another, a more +literal and yet more wondrous way of feeding +on God, and that is Holy Communion. "I +am the Bread of Life," and again, "He who +eats Me shall also live by Me." "As the hare +in winter," says St. Francis of Sales, "grows +white by feeding on the snow, so the soul grows +white by feeding on this Heavenly Manna." The +science may be at fault, but the thought is +true. "It is the boast of the Catholic Church," +observes Cardinal Newman, "that she can +keep the young heart chaste, because she gives +Jesus for food and Mary for nursing-mother." I +am quoting from memory, and do not vouch +for the exact accuracy of the quotation. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +DECEMBER 18. +</p> + +<p> +Last night we passed the first two of the +Azores. These islands were discovered by +Portuguese navigators about the middle of the +fifteenth century, and still belong to Portugal. +They number nine in all, and have a population +of some 260,000. About noon we sight +Pico, the third of the group, and steam by it for +hours, at a distance of six or seven miles off. +Though we have sunshine at sea, it is raining +and misting ashore, and we fail to get a good +view. However, I have counted as many as +seven little villages where the snow-white +cottages form into clusters on the sloping shore. +These islands are of volcanic origin, and the +conical peak of an extinct volcano seems to +have given its name to the island we are passing +by. It is visible for a moment or two, and +we catch just a glimpse of it as it peeps out of +a cloud. But it is a coy peak and hastes to +hide itself beneath its veil of mist. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +DECEMBER 19. +</p> + +<p> +I have learned that the mountain we passed +yesterday rises to a height of 7,460 feet, and +slopes to the sea at an angle of 40 degrees. +The bare head of it, uplifted above its bed of +cloud, and outlined against the blue sky, with +the sun shining full upon it, is still vividly +before my imagination. No human eye witnessed +the volcanic upheavel which cast this +mountain peak up into the clouds out of the +bosom of the sea. But Captain Tillard of +H.M.S. "Sabrina" was eye-witness, in 1811, of +the rise and extinction of an island in the +neighbourhood, which reached a height of 410 +feet and was swallowed up by the sea after an +existence of 119 days. +</p> + +<p> +For more than a week we have held our +lonely way on the ocean, no sail seen, no smoke +of steamer on the far horizon. The sea gulls +alone bear us company, whether the same birds +that followed us from the first, or fresh +relays from the pastures of the deep, no one can +tell. Birds of ocean, foster-children of the +wandering sea, their home is on the rolling +wave, their haunts no man may know. But +the same Providence that feeds the sparrows +on the dry land gives food to these rovers on +the wilderness of waters. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +DECEMBER 20. +</p> + +<p> +Our second Sunday at sea. I say the +Rosary and Litany in the second cabin, where +there are a number of Italians. I also give +a short instruction. A wee mite of a boy, with +the coal black hair and dark complexion of the +South, keeps eyeing me curiously the while, as +if wondering how one who looks so little like +a countryman can speak the language. +</p> + +<p> +Ever since we got fairly away from the +American coast we have had summer weather, +the thermometer ranging from 50 to 70 +degrees. The temperature of the water has been +even higher. One day it was 72 degrees; this +morning it was 62. The Gulf Stream is here +at its widest. Only the short day can bring +home to us the fact that we are at the winter +solstice. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +DECEMBER 21. +</p> + +<p> +To-day the larger gulls that haunt the seashore +and nest in the rocks are abroad. They +are tokens that the land is not very far away. +Sometime to-night we reach Gibraltar, but +must lie outside till morning, for no ship can +enter the port of that grim fortress save in the +day. +</p> + +<p> +Now that our ocean voyage is nearing its +end, our thoughts turn back to the loved ones +we have left behind. The uppermost feeling +in my own mind at the moment is gratitude, +first to God for all His goodness, and next to +the many friends, whether personally known to +me or not, who have so generously given of +their means and freed my mind from all +anxiety on that score. I feel that I owe them +more than can be put in words. May the peace +of God and His blessing abide with them +always, and may He, in His own way and in His +own good time, repay them a hundredfold. +</p> + +<p> +This batch of notes was mailed at Gibraltar. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap07"></a></p> + +<h2> +FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES +</h2> + +<p class="t3"> +II +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +DECEMBER 22. +</p> + +<p> +Last night we reached Gibraltar and +dropped anchor in the bay. It was an +impressive sight when first we came in +view of land. On our right lay Morocco, on +our left Spain, and the lights on either shore +became visible about the same time. There are +not many spots even on this goodly globe of +ours where one can see two continents. The +night was lovely, the air almost balmy, the +stars were all out—ever so many more stars +than can be seen at home—and we stood long +on deck and gazed our fill at the splendour of +the night. Truly the skies declare the glory of +God and the firmament of heaven shows forth +the work of His hands. +</p> + +<p> +This morning, about 8.30, most of the first-class +passengers landed in a tender. It was +good to feel one's foot once more on terra +firma—and surely if there is firm footing on earth it +is the Rock of Gibraltar. The place I will not +attempt to describe; that were quite beyond me. +Enough to say, and certainly not too much, +that the panorama which lies before one from +half-way up the mountain—we had not time to +go all the way—is one of the grandest that +anywhere unfolds itself to the eye of man. +And the city is full of interest. It is the +meeting-place of two continents, the free mart and +seaport of all nations, the most famous stronghold +of the greatest empire under the sun. One +could wish if one had time, to study the various +types of humanity that gather here. By all +odds the most striking is the turban'd Moor, +with his swart features, his impassive face, his +picturesque costume, his gait and carriage not +lacking in dignity. We enter the principal +Catholic Church, rather a fine building, and are +happily able to assist at Mass. We see the +Bishop for a moment, an Italian Benedictine, a +native of Siena, a very genial and pleasant +man. By eleven we are back on board, and by +noon are steaming around Barracks Point and +entering the Mediterranean. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +DECEMBER 23. +</p> + +<p> +We have made our best run—348 knots from +noon yesterday till noon to-day. Our ship, +though a splendid seaboat, is not speedy, and +these two last trips has fallen behind her +schedule. An expert engineer, sent down especially +from London, has joined us at Gibraltar, and +we are now making better time. Smooth seas, +sunny skies, and a summer temperature have +made this latter part of our voyage extremely +pleasant, and yet we long for its end, or rather +we long to reach our goal. Several of the +passengers left us at Gibraltar, others joined us +there. It is the way of life, which is all +summed up in a coming and a going and a passing +away. In truth we do but get glimpses of one +another as we pass through it. How short is +all that comes to an end! "We have not here +a lasting city, but seek one which is to come." +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +DECEMBER 24. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Sardinia's snowy mountain tops fringing the<br> + southern sky.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +The line comes back to me from school days, +as I gaze on those mountain-tops, bare and +rugged, and snowless to-day. Sardinia is one +of the largest islands in the Mediterranean. It +has a population of more than 700,000. Once +one of the granaries of Carthage, and later of +imperial Rome, it is now in great part untilled +and barren. The natives are more like Spaniards +than Italians, though the island belongs to +Italy. In certain districts of the interior the +people speak the Latin tongue, which serves +to confute the received notion—never more +than a wretched half-truth, and not even as +much—that Latin is a dead language. What, +the language of the Church Catholic a dead +language! Not while she lives, and the eternal +years of God are hers. +</p> + +<p> +Christmas at sea; Christmas without the +wonted Christmas cheer; Christmas far from +home and friends. But so were Mary and +Joseph on that first Christmas night in Bethlehem, +far from home and friends. And, please +God, we are going to land in Naples to-morrow +in time to celebrate the Christ-Mass. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +DECEMBER 25. +</p> + +<p> +Before daylight this Christmas morning we +are on deck, where we linger most of the time +till our ship is docked in Naples at 10 a.m. +The approach to the city from the sea is very +grand. In the gray dawn we discern the light +on Ischia, which shows far out at sea. As day +creeps on, the outline of Vesuvius becomes +dimly visible through the morning haze. We +pass some islets, then Pozzuoli and other suburbs +of the queenly city. The sun is now full +risen; 't is +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Morn on the waters, and purple and bright<br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +its light illuminates the lovely bay, gilds the +heights of Sant' Elmo and the roofs of Chiaia, +which curves beneath. The docks and shipping +lie further on, and beyond them rises the giant +form of dread Vesuvius. Little wonder that +lovers of panoramic scenery go into raptures +over this scene. If it is not "See Naples and +die," at any rate it is "See Naples and +never-more forget." The words of the well-known +boat song come unbidden to one's lips: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + O dolce Napoli!<br> + O suol beato!<br> + Ove sorridere<br> + Vuole il creato;<br> + Tu sei l' impero<br> + Dell' armonia;<br> + Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!<br> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + O lovely Naples!<br> + Favoured ground.<br> + Where smiling Nature's<br> + Charms abound;<br> + The native home<br> + Of beauty thou:<br> + Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +It takes a deal of ceremony to get a big ship +like ours docked, and a deal of patience to wait +on an empty stomach for the word to land. At +last we are ashore, through the custom-house, +and on our way to the Convent of the Soeurs +de L'Esperance, No. 10 Via Santa Teresa, +Chiaia. We say Mass at 11.30 a.m. in the +Church of St. Teresa hard by, which, with the +adjoining monastery is in the hands of the +Discalced Carmelites. In the afternoon we take a +walk on the esplanade, which runs along the +bay, visit the Aquarium, mount the hill to Sant' +Elmo, and from that commanding height gaze +upon the city, the bay, and the broken ranges of +mountains that stud the coast. The native +band of Chiaia, a great but inharmonious +concert of crowing roosters, awakens us next +morning long before the dawn, and by 10.30 +we are getting our last glimpse of cloud-capped +Vesuvius from the window of the Romeward-bound +train. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +DECEMBER 26. +</p> + +<p> +The country through which we pass for the +first hour or two after quitting Naples does not +yield in beauty or fertility even to the plains of +Lombardy. Every foot of it is tilled; the +tillage is intensive as well as extensive. Here +the vine is trailed on great rows of trees, the +wide spaces between being now green with all +manner of vegetables, while the stately Italian +pine lends an added grace and dignity to the +landscape. As we go further north, the broad +plain narrows into valleys hemmed in by bare +and lofty mountains, with here a village clinging +to a rocky slope, and there a lone monastery +crowning a rugged crest. By noon we reach +Casino, and presently admiring eyes are raised +to the giddy height where the great abbey of +that name, famed in story, lords it over all the +land. +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +As straws show how the wind blows, so very +little things serve oftentimes to bring racial and +national characteristics into clear relief. Thus, +over a plot of green in the public garden at +Chiaia, I read these formidable words of +warning: I TRASGRESSORI SARANNO +PUNITI A NORMA DI LEGGE, which may be +rendered: TRESPASSERS SHALL BE +PUNISHED TO THE LIMIT OF THE +LAW. We simply and bluntly say: Keep off +the grass! Again, a railway ticket, on which +with us are sometimes found the words, Not +transferable, bears here the blazoned legend, +La cessione e punita a termini di legge, that is +to say, The transfer is punishable in the precise +manner laid down in the law. On the other +hand, the attempt of some Italian railway +official to ape your bluff Englishman, in rendering +a notice graven in letters of bronze on the +window of our carriage, E pericoloso sporgersi—It +is dangerous to put one's head out of the +window, comes to grief in this ludicrous +fashion, similarly cut in bronze, Don't stretch out! +Ecco Roma! We have finished our journey. +Monday afternoon (Dec. 29) I saw Cardinal +Gotti. This (Tuesday), evening I go on +retreat at the Lazarist Mission House near +Montecitorio, where I made my retreat for the +priesthood twenty-five years ago. Sunday +(Jan. 3) is the day fixed for the consecration. +There is a hastening of events, as one chapter +of life draws to a close; and hastily I close this +last paragraph. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap08"></a></p> + +<h2> +FROM NAPLES TO CAIRO. +</h2> + +<p class="t3"> +WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 20, 1909. +</p> + +<p> +We leave Rome by the 10 a.m. express +and reach Naples at 14.30. Yesterday +we came to Rome from Assisi. +At Terni I bought a lunch basket which +contained (1) a paper napkin, (2) a knife, (3) a +loaf of bread, (4) a cake of sweetbread, (5) +two slices of meat, (6) a couple of slices of +sausage, (7) salt, (8) a bit of chicken, (9) +toothpicks, (10) a bottle of wine, (11) an +orange, (12) a piece of cheese, (13) some +walnuts—all for two francs. I question whether +there is any other country in the world where +you could buy so much food for so little +money. +</p> + +<p> +A facchino, or railway porter, at Naples, +plays us a scurvy trick. We hand him over +our luggage at the station, and tell him we +want to get a carriage to take us on board +the Regina Margherita. After a moment's +thought, he tells us it is but two minutes' walk, +and he will take us on board for four +francs—which we think rather too much, but agree to +give. He leads us along dirty streets for at +least ten minutes, and fetches up finally at a +landing place, where he and sundry boatmen +engage in a war of words, to which vehement +gesticulations lend a sanguinary aspect—all +calculated to impress us with the difficulty of +getting to our steamer. Presently he motions us +to step into one of the boats, which we, in our +innocence, do in fear and trembling, while he +quickly makes off. But the boatman will not +budge till we have paid him four francs. Then +he quietly rows us round a ship, and up to a +dock, where, to our surprise and great disgust, +we behold our Regina Margherita cosily +moored! Two Neapolitan ragamuffins extort +further tribute for carrying our traps on board. +"For ways that are dark and tricks that are—vain" +seems hardly the word, and I leave the +reader to finish the sentence. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +THURSDAY, JANUARY 21. +</p> + +<p> +We awake this morning in the Strait of +Messina, scene of the late frightful catastrophe. +On our right, but at some distance, is the city +of that name, once fair as few cities are, now +a corpse, torn and disfigured, with the light of +life gone out of it. Farther up the Strait, on +our left, is ruined Reggio. At a first glance the +ruins are not seen, but closer scrutiny, with the +help of a pair of glasses, reveals them. One +very large building in the upper part of the +town is still on its feet. In many cases the +walls are left standing, mute witnesses of the +ruin within and without. I cannot discern a +single church tower or steeple in all the +stricken city. By ten o'clock we are off Cape +Spartivento (Split-the-wind), the toe of the +Italian boot, and by twelve the last of the tall +hills of Southern Italy has faded away on the +horizon. +</p> + +<p> +Great is Italian reverence for that which has +been and is, an admirable sentiment in its way, +but one which tends to conserve in being +things that are and ought not to be. For +example. I was awakened this morning at five +o'clock by a rattling noise which I took to be +due to some iron fastening having become +loose. I groped my way on deck, but could see +nothing. Meeting one of the stewards, I asked +him what made the noise, "E il temone—it +is the steering-gear," he made answer, and +suggested that I could get a room on the lower +deck where the noise would not be heard. +Going on deck after daylight I found the +clatter was caused by a bolt, which kept the +rod of the steering-gear in place, having too +much play. The ship's smith was busied hard +by with mending a windlass, and I drew his +attention to the matter. He eyed me in mild +wonderment, and with a characteristic shrug +of the shoulders, said, "E sempre stato cosi—It +has always been like that." So there you +are! Hundreds upon hundreds of passengers +have been robbed of their sleep by the clatter +of this bolt, but what of that? The nuisance +must go unabated, because—E sempre stato +cosi! +</p> + +<p> +P. S. I must set on record the fact that +the thing has since been remedied: for the +future, passengers in stateroom No —, of the +Regina Margherita may rest in peace. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +FRIDAY, JANUARY 22. +</p> + +<p> +All the afternoon we are chased by a +thunderstorm, but manage to keep ahead of it. We +do, however, get the wind that goes with it, +and there is a deal of motion in the ship, and +a deal of squeamishness in certain stomachs. +By eight o'clock we have left the storm +behind, and by ten have abeam the light on a +little island off Crete, or Candia, as it is also +called. We think of St. Paul and the hardships +he endured along this coast while he was +on his way to Rome. The Cretans of his time +seem to have been a pretty bad lot, for he +cites "a prophet of their own" as saying that +they were "always liars, wicked brutes, lazy +bellies," and vouches for the truth of the +indictment. But there must have been some +good ones among them, for he made many converts +there, and gave his beloved disciple Titus +to be their first Bishop. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +SATURDAY, JANUARY 23. +</p> + +<p> +I've had an interesting talk with two Franciscan +Fathers, one the Visitor-General of the +Order, the other the well-known American +author, Paschal Robinson. We are now within +ten hours' sail of Egypt—Egypt old in story, of +which the Sphinx is fitting emblem, land of +many riddles yet unsolved. We shall reach +there before dawn to-morrow. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 27. +</p> + +<p> +Back on board the Regina Margherita, and +on the way to Jaffa (Joppa). Early Sunday +morning we land at Alexandria, say Mass in +the Franciscan Church there, and at 11 +a.m. take the train for Cairo, which we reach +some three hours later. The distance is about +140 miles. We are traversing perhaps the +most fertile tract of country in the world, +along the delta of the Nile. It is one vast +plain as far as the eye can see, from edge +to edge of the horizon, green with growing +crops of wheat and cotton. On all sides are +groves of acacias and lines of stately palm, +while long caravans of camels, passing parallel +to the line of railway, lend an added +picturesqueness to the landscape. Egypt, to the +intellect a land of mystery, is to the eye a land +of beauty—land of the evergreen. And yet +one misses the snow-capped mountains which +make of Italy, and still more of Switzerland, +a fairyland of romance. Here it is always +summer, and the crops keep growing perennially; +as many as four crops are raised in the +year. Little rain falls, and the tiller of the +soil would wish it were less than that little, +for the waters of the Nile irrigate the land, +and it is the hot sun out of a cloudless sky that +favours growth. I have said the tiller of the +soil when I should have rather said the owner, +who is generally a Jew or a Turk. Your Arab +Fellah gets his pittance of four piastres (about +twenty cents) a day, and is better off with that +than he was before the English came in, when +the Khedive sent his servants to take heavy +toll of the ripened crops. +</p> + +<p> +The Arab subdued the Copt, lineal descendant +of the ancient Egyptians, and was in turn +subdued by the Turk. He is a picturesque +figure, with his white turban or red fez, his +flowing robes, his sandalled, oftentimes bare, +feet. The women are veiled up to the eyes, +with a curious covering on the nose, which +seems to serve no particular purpose and is +certainly not an ornament. The young of the +male sex are for the most part of a pleasing +appearance. But with advancing years the +features of these people take on a hard and +somewhat repulsive look, half of submission, +half of hopelessness, not unlike that which one +sees in the eyes of that much abused beast of +burden, the ass, which for six decades of +centuries has borne the whips and scorns of his +master, man. It is the fatalism of the race +that finds expression in that look—the feeling +that it is of no use kicking against the pricks +of a relentless destiny. And so the Arab goes +his way, bearing the burden of life sadly +but submissively. His whole philosophy is +summed up in the one word malesh (a as in +"ma," e as in "edge," both vowels long drawn +out,) which is forever on his lips: "It doesn't +matter"—nothing matters in a world where +so much is amiss and so little can be mended. +We spend two days in Cairo, during which +we visit Matarieh, Old Cairo, the citadel and +famous mosque of alabaster, the museum with +its mummies, and the pyramids. At Matarieh +is the well of sweet water which gushed forth, +tradition has it, when the Holy Family came +into Egypt, and the sycamore which gave them +shelter. The present tree is more than three +hundred years old. At Old Cairo is shown the +site of the cottage in which dwelt the Holy +Family. It is in the crypt of an ancient basilica, +the style of which bespeaks the fifth or sixth +century. The place is in the hands of the +Schismatical Copts; it was the daughter of the +Coptic priest who unlocked the door for us. +In Old Cairo one sees the Arab in the primeval +environment of the unchanging East. All is +primitive here. Bedouin and Jew, camel, +donkey, and goat move along pell-mell, jostling +one another in the narrow, crooked, foul-smelling +streets. I would not advise a visit to +the market-place just before dinner—it might +spoil one's appetite. There is some very ancient +dirt in Old Cairo—and some that is not so +ancient. Newman says somewhere that no dirt +is immortal, but he is speaking of another sort +of dirt, and, anyhow, he never set foot in this +Egyptian town, laved but washed not by the +waters of the Nile. +</p> + +<p> +In striking contrast to the lowly ass, is that +other beast of burden, the lordly camel. With +what lofty disdain it sniffs the air as it looks +down upon its mean environment—pigmy man +included. It is a proud creature—proud even +of the hump on its back. It has been tamed +by man after a fashion, but not subdued, and +its eyes belie the obedience that it outwardly +yields to its puny master. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +ROME, MARCH 9, 1909. +</p> + +<p> +We returned from the East a couple of +weeks ago, and are now getting ready to leave +for home. We are to sail from Southampton +for New York on the 31st. Of our visit to the +Holy Land I write nothing now; I may later, +but life is uncertain. Of Egypt I might have +written more, but my notes are lost, as ill luck +would have it, and I write from memory. +Had not those notes been lost—in some such +way we used to put it in boyhood's days when +spinning sgialachan by the fireside—this letter +had been longer. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap09"></a></p> + +<h2> +THROUGH SPAIN. +</h2> + +<p> +Two things led me to leave the +"Saxonia" at Gibraltar, and journey +through the Spanish peninsula. I +wanted to go to Lourdes, and I wanted to +drink in the memories of St. Teresa, Spain's +chiefest glory, at the fountain-head. At +Algeciras, right across from Gibraltar, I set +foot for the first time on the soil of Spain. The +train for Ronda was waiting, and I stepped +on board. The railway passes through +a wild, mountainous region, rich in traces +of the Moorish occupation. At Ronda I +said Mass in the chapel of the Little +Sisters of the Poor. One of the Sisters was +from Dumfries, in Scotland, and one from our +own Quebec. I asked them how they came to +be in Ronda, and they said they were like +soldiers and had to go where they were sent. +The Little Sisters have their houses and +do their Christlike work in many parts of +the world. Wherever the Catholic Church +is, where the Cross of Christ points +heavenward, there they are at home. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p> +Andalusia comprises the four old Moorish +Kingdoms of Jaen, Seville, Granada, and +Cordova. It is the most fascinating province +of Spain. The scenic beauty of mountain +and valley soothes the mind, while the soft +languorous climate steeps the senses in repose. +To the voluptuous Mohammedan Andalusia +was well worth fighting for. And long he +fought and fiercely ere he gave it back finally +to the sons of Spain. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p> +The region from Ronda to Seville is wonderfully +fertile. So indeed is nearly the whole of +Spain—land of the vine and the olive, land of +corn and wheat, land of clear blue skies and +brilliant sun. Seville, on the banks of the +Guadalquiver, is a city of great interest, +possessing a wealth of historical associations. +It has passed through many vicissitudes from +the time of the Romans down. The long +domination of the Moors has stamped an oriental +character upon it. I said Mass at the Convent +of the Institute of the Blessed Virgin Mary, +founded by the famous Mary Ward. The +Sisters are commonly known as the Loreto +Nuns, and in Spain as "Las Madres +Irlandesas." They teach a day school in Seville, +and have a boarding school outside the city. I +met one who said she was connected by ties of +kinship with the family of St. Teresa. She +wrote for me in Spanish a saying of the saint, +which shows she was human enough to hate +Seville because it was so hot: "Whoever +suffers the heat of Seville with patience has +done penance enough." It seems a pity the +human element should have been almost wholly +eliminated from our Lives of the Saints. The +run of those that have come down to us, +especially from mediæval times, are little more +than an abstract of the heroic virtues practised +by the saints and the miracles performed by +them. The servants of God are set up on a +pedestal so high and so far away that we feel +as if we could never hope to get near to them +at all. And yet they had their human side, to +us intensely interesting, for, to apply in a good +sense what was first written disparagingly, +</p> + +<p class="t3"> + One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.<br> +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p> +At Seville I visited the monastery of Discalced +Carmelites founded by St. Teresa. The +present one was built by St. John of the Cross +in a different locality from that of the original +monastery, because the situation of this latter +one was found to be unhealthy. Over the +grille is a wooden cross erected by St. John, +the faithful co-worker of St. Teresa, a man of +lofty spirit kindred to her own. I was shown +an autograph letter of his, bearing date March +28, 1586. The handwriting is very legible. +Of St. Teresa's own relics there are the +following: (1) an autograph letter, signed +"Teresa of Jesus," the name being spelled +as written, not "Theresa," which follows the +French "Thérèse;" (2) a bit of the hair shirt +worn by the saint; (3) a medicine bottle used +by her in her last illness—which shows her to +have been human to the end; (4) a large white +woolen mantle that she wore, the mantle of +her Order; (5) one of her slippers, now so +richly embroidered that the original cannot be +seen; (6) last and far the most signal relic of +all, the autograph original of the Interior +Castle, or Castle of the Soul, perhaps her +greatest work. The handwriting is somewhat +peculiar, and the text not easily read, because +in many cases the syllables are separated. +This priceless autograph is in an excellent state +of preservation, bound with heavy plates of +gold. It came into possession of the monastery, +the nuns told me, through one of the first +novices of the community, her father, a +gentleman of high social standing, having received +it from a Carmelite priest who was intimate +in life with St. Teresa. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p> +The Father Prior of the Discalced Carmelites +at Seville, who speaks English well, having +spent some years in England as a missionary, +gave me a story handed down by tradition in +the Carmelite Order. It shows at once the +terms of loving familiarity on which St. Teresa +lived with Our Lord and her ready wit. The +convent at Burgos, in the north of Spain, was +her last foundation. She feared to go there in +mid-winter because of the cold, but Our Lord +reminded her that He was the source of all +warmth. The roads being all but impassable, +she and her companions suffered great hardships, +and at one place were nearly drowned in +the waters of a stream that had overflowed its +banks. Gently complaining to her Divine +Spouse, she was told that these were favours +He reserved for His friends. "That," she +rejoined, "is why your friends are so few!" "She +as very saucy with Him," said an Irish +nun at Madrid, on my reciting this story. +The playful sally finds its proper setting and +balance in those other words of the saint that +we read in her <i>Foundations</i>, ch. xxxi: "O +my Lord, how true it is that you repay with a +cross those who do you a service! But what +an inestimable treasure that cross is to those +who truly love you, were it but given them at +once to realize its value! And yet, they would +not have sought to possess themselves of the +treasure, the price to be paid seeming at the +moment too great." So hard is it for us to +bear what presses here and now upon us, even +when we are quite persuaded that every trial +is a crucible for the minting of heaven's gold. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p> +I did but pass through Madrid on my way +to Avila. The city is modern, having none of +the quaintness of other Spanish towns. The +Loreto Nuns have a convent and school in the +outskirts. Even the little tots must speak +English. A course at this convent is greatly +desired for their daughters by Spanish mothers +since Princess Victoria came to share with +Alfonso the throne of Spain. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p> +About midway between Madrid and Avila, +with great ridges of rock above and around it, +stands the palace of the Escorial, built by +Philip the Second, husband of Mary Tudor. +It compares with the pyramids of Egypt in +size and solidity. It is at once a palace, a +monastery, a church, and a mausoleum. There +are not in all the world more gorgeous tombs +than those that here enclose the ashes of the +kings and queens of Spain. In the treasury of +the monastery I saw the little statue of the +Blessed Virgin before which Pope St. Pius V +prayed during the battle of Lepanto. Queen +Elizabeth II has decked it with a crown of +brilliants. In the library, among manuscripts +of priceless value, are four of the autograph +writings of St. Teresa, the Book of the +Foundations, the Manner of Visiting Convents, the +Way of Perfection, and the Life by herself. +All these were collected, not without difficulty, +by the royal founder of the Escorial, who died +sixteen years after St. Teresa, in 1598. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p> +Avila, famed evermore as the birthplace +and home of St. Teresa, is situated in the +centre of the province of that name, west of +Segovia and south of Valladolid. The hill on +which it stands rises out of an undulating +country to the north, and, on the south, overlooks +a broad plain which stretches away almost as +far as the eye can see to a range of mountains +known as the Sierras of Avila. The waters +of the Adaja river bathe the foot of the cliffs +to the west. On the southwestern slope of the +hill, facing the wide extent of meadow land and +the distant mountains, stands the old home +of St. Teresa, enclosed within a Dominican +monastery. Here one is shown the room +where she was born, now a chapel in which the +Blessed Sacrament is kept. Here also, but +some feet under the ground—for old things +have a way of sinking into the earth—, is the +little garden where, a child of seven, she played +at being a nun, and with her brother, four +years her senior planned to seek the crown of +martyrdom among the Moors. "We settled," +she tells us, "to go together to the country of +the Moors, begging our way there for the love +of God, that we might be beheaded there." "I +ran away," was the naive excuse precocious +piety gave her mother, "because I wanted to +see God, and one cannot do that without +dying." +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p> +Avila is little changed since Teresa de +Ahumada and Rodriquez de Cepeda stole +softly along its cobbled streets and left its lofty +portals behind, in the gray dawn of that +summer's day, some four hundred years ago. The +stones, since worn by many feet, are the same +that they trod; the stout walls that defied +Moorish assault still look proudly down upon +the stranger that enters at the gate. +Outside the walls are two religious houses +which are fragrant with the memories of +St. Teresa. One is the Convent of St. Joseph, the +other the Monastery of the Incarnation. The +latter stands on a hill a few hundred yards to +the north of the town. There Teresa first +made her vows, and there she lived for +twenty-seven years, three of which she was Prioress. +Among her relics there are (1) a little water +jug, (2) a crucifix borne by her when she went +forth to found new convents, (3) the key of +her cell, (4) a document concerning the dowry +of a religious, signed by the saint and the four +nuns who established with her the new +foundation. I sat in the chair, by the side of the +grille, where St. Peter of Alcantara and +St. Francis Borgia conversed with her on spiritual +subjects. It was there that a nun, happening +along one day, found herself and St. John of +the Cross raised above the ground in an ecstasy +of contemplation. The quick-witted Teresa +put it all on her companion. "See," she said, +"what comes of talking with Father John!" +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p> +St. Joseph's of Avila, now known as the +Convent of St. Teresa, is on the east side, just +outside the walls, but within the town limits. +It was the saint's first foundation, the +beginning of the Reform. Here are several +relics, among others a tambourine on which +the saint used to play. Her body lies +incorrupt at Alba de Tormes, where she +died. The morning I went to say Mass at +St. Joseph's, I was accompanied by two English +ladies, a mother and daughter, Anglicans both, +very High Church, and very much interested +in all that related to St. Teresa. They knelt +to the Blessed Sacrament on entering, and +assisted at Mass with every mark of devotion. +We afterwards spoke with the nuns at the +grating. They showed us the relics of their +holy foundress, and bade us be sure to visit +the chapel built by her in connection with her +first foundation. I had told the mother the +night before of the sweet odor I perceived +when, at the Escorial, the Augustinian Father +had opened the glass case that contained the +four autograph writings of St. Teresa. Just as +we entered the chapel I felt the same sweet +odor, and asked the mother if she perceived it. +"Yes," she said, "but it is a very elusive +odor." A nun at Seville had spoken to me of +the odor exhaled by the relics of the saint, +and had said that some perceived it but others +didn't, and that even to the same person +it was perceptible at times, at other times +not. It seemed to me something like the odor +of incense, and yet I am quite sure it was not +that. I was much impressed with the fact that +it was the self-same odor I perceived in those +two widely distant places. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p> +At the hotel in Avila I met an American +lady who had not visited her native land in five +years. She was so taken with Europe, she +said, that she thought she should never cross +the Atlantic again. Perhaps the recent terrible +happenings may have made her change her +mind. The conversation turning on St. Teresa, +I said I looked upon her as being, after +the Blessed Virgin, the greatest woman saint +that ever lived. My American friend believed +she must yield the palm to St. Catherine of +Siena. And truly the latter may contest the +palm in the outer world of action. But I was +thinking rather of the inner world of the +spirit, where piety rears "a building +of God, a house not made with hands." No +one has thrown clearer or more +copious light upon the things of that inner +world than the author of "The Way of +Perfection" and "The Castle of the Soul." For +the rest, "star differs from star in brightness," +and it is not for us, short-sighted and +dim of vision as we are, to say which shines +with the greatest lustre. Stars there are, too, +in the firmament of the Church that have never +swum into our ken. We shall see them when +we have passed hence, even as those who pass +to the other side of the globe behold the +Southern Cross.—Mrs. Hemans's lines on that +brilliant constellation come to one unbidden: they +are put in the mouth of some son or daughter +of Spain: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the main<br> + My fathers unfolded the ensign of Spain,<br> + And planted their faith in the regions that see<br> + Its unperishing symbol emblazoned in thee.<br> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Shine on—my own land is a far distant spot,<br> + And the stars of thy sphere can enlighten it not,<br> + And the eyes that I love, though e'en now they may be<br> + O'er the firmament wandering, can gaze not on thee!<br> +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p> +On leaving Avila I visited Valladolid. To +me the most interesting place there was the +Scots College, once a home of the Jesuits and +their house of studies in the days of the great +Suarez. Here many of the men who kept the +torch of faith burning in the Scottish +Highlands during the dark night of persecution +received their education for the priesthood. The +Very Reverend Alexander MacDonald, V.G., +who died at Mabon, Cape Breton, in 1865, left +Valladolid for Lismore, Scotland, in 1816, as +the college records bear witness. It was from +him I got in baptism the light of faith. +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +* * * +</p> + +<p> +I slept at San Sebastian on my way to +Lourdes. Of my visit to that famous shrine I +write elsewhere. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap10"></a></p> + +<h2> +LOURDES REVISITED. +</h2> + +<p class="t3"> +VICTORIA, B.C., AUGUST, 1914. +</p> + +<p> +I visited Lourdes again in May of the +present year. Much water had passed +under the old stone bridge that spans +the Gave since last I gazed on that swirling +stream, and listened to the hoarse music of its +voice. Lourdes has grown a great deal in +these fourteen years. The old town has widened +its bounds on the right bank of the river, +and on the left the low meadow land is covered +with shops and hotels. These, indeed, may be +said to make up the town. In the shops, as I +also noted when last I was there, the wares +are almost wholly of a devotional character—a +fact that gave rise to the following incident. +The joke that gives it point is at my own expense. +</p> + +<p> +I left my soap at Saint Sebastian, the last +town in Spain ere you cross into France. +It may be needful to tell the reader that the +traveller in Europe has to carry his own soap. +I wanted to buy that necessary article in +Lourdes, but did not know where to get it. +The stores that lined the streets on either side +seemed to offer nothing but beads, medals, +statues, etc. What was worse, I could not for the +life of me recall the French word for soap. I +tried to get at it through the Italian "sapone." Cutting +off the final vowel, I entered the nearest +store, and boldly asked for "sapon." The +salesmaid at first looked puzzled. But on my +repeating the order, her face broke into a +smile of comprehension. Quickly she sped to +a corner of the store, and thence brought me +a tiny statue of St. Paul! "Sapon," no doubt, +sounded more like "Saint Pol" than like the +elusive "savon" that I had tried in vain to get +hold of. Going into another shop, where a +window bore the legend "English and German +spoken," I asked for soap. They told me the +girl who was to wait on English-speaking +customers had not yet joined the staff. I inquired +in Italian if they knew that language, and to +my great relief was answered in the affirmative, +and directed to a little shop down a near +street, where I bought an excellent piece of +soap that is still in my possession. +</p> + +<p> +Man has wrought many changes in Lourdes. +Only the works of God remain unchanged. +The Gave flows merrily on, singing its way to +the sea. Round about are the eternal hills, +which change not. The grotto in the rocks of +Massabielle still looks out over the hurrying +river, even as Our Lady, from her quiet niche, +smiles down upon the ever flowing and ebbing +multitude at her feet. How mighty has been +that tide of pilgrimage since last I knelt before +the statue of Our Lady there! Day by day, +month by month, year by year, it keeps +renewing itself, flowing ever onward like the +leaping waters of the Gave. +</p> + +<p> +I reached Lourdes on the eve of Saturday, +May 10, and stayed there over Sunday. The +great Swiss national pilgrimage was there, in +eight trains; a pilgrimage from Metz in two +trains; a mixed pilgrimage from Strassburg, in +two trains; the seventeenth pilgrimage from +Namur in three trains; the ninth national +Bavarian pilgrimage in two trains; and the +ninth Austrian, also in two trains. There were +in all some fifteen thousand pilgrims, of +many nations and many tongues. But one was +the faith that drew them thither; one the +devotion. And one was the hymn they sang in +unison in the marvellous torchlight procession +that night. I stood watching it as it wound its +way down the great oval pathway through the +meadow of Lourdes. The spire of the stately +basilica that stands over the Grotto, the grand +façade, and the Church of the Rosary beneath, +were all ablaze. Then ten thousand pilgrims, +a very torrent of moving lights, poured into +the pathway, circled slowly round it, swaying +and singing as they passed along. The +sounds that rose upon the night air, under the +listening stars, were as the voices of the sea. +</p> + +<p> +A thought that saddens comes to me as I +write these words, after three short months. +Many, many of the men who walked side by +side in that procession have ere now met face +to face on European battlefields. Man is part +beast, and part angel. The angel is of God, +the beast of the earth, earthy. And the beast +that is in man, true to its nature, fights its +fellows; the angel can but weep over the fallen +and the slain. +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +What a sight that was of sick and suffering +humanity before the statue of Our Lady in +the rocks of Massabielle! It seemed as if all +the ills that poor human flesh is heir to were +brought together there. One had not the heart +to ask favours for oneself, so piteous was the +spectacle of so much misery unrelieved. For +out of the thousands that yearly seek a cure at +Lourdes but few are made whole. Yet all are +renewed in spirit, and strengthened to bear +their ailments with Christian resignation. It +is not that they want faith; it is rather that +God does not will to free even those who have +faith from all evil here below. "It is +appointed unto man once to die." Through many +tribulations, through the gates of death itself, +we must enter into the Kingdom of God, Kingdom +of endless ages, whereon, as St. Augustine +so beautifully expresses it, "sits the +untroubled light, and the peace of God that +passeth all understanding." Meanwhile in +patience we shall possess our souls. +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +A year ago one came to Lourdes, a girl from +a town in France, sick beyond all human hope +of recovery. She had a complication of +maladies, including consumption in its last stage. +Her doctor, an unbeliever, deemed it madness +in her to undertake the long journey. But go +she would. He told her, if she were cured, he +himself would go with her next year to +Lourdes. They were both of them there the +Sunday I was there—she to thank Our Lady +for the wondrous favour, he to ponder upon +the superhuman power that wrought it, and to +find, let us hope, healing and peace for his soul. +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +In a corner of France, amid the foothills and +under the shadow of the Pyrenees, Lourdes lies +sheltered with its holy shrine. Afar it lies +from the madding strife that now ravages and +reddens with blood many a fair field that was +white unto harvest. Let us pray Our Lady +that the war may soon be over—that He who +chid the wild waves on the sea of Galilee may +now stay the fierce onset of angry passions, +and bring a great calm. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap11"></a></p> + +<h2> +A FEW MORE STRAY LEAVES AND TRACES. +</h2> + +<p> +The passage from New York to +Gibraltar took twelve days. The +"Saxonia" is slow, but sure and steady. +There was little sea-sickness, and less cause +for it, but small-pox broke out in the +steerage our first day at sea. The child—for a +child it was that showed the dread symptoms—was +at once placed in the isolation hospital. +We all had to be vaccinated, and the +"Saxonia" steamed into the harbour of Funchal, +Madeira, flying the yellow-jack. There was, +however, little fear of infection among our +fellow-passengers in the first cabin, as became +apparent the night before we made port. +There was a dance on the deck, which we +were all invited to join. Conspicuous on the +list of dances that lay before each passenger +as we sat down that evening to the dinner table +was "the vaccination waltz!" Next morning +a pathetic little wooden box, roughly carpentered, +was landed at Madeira. It contained the +remains of the little child which had died in +port—not of small-pox, which had turned out +after all to be chicken-pox—but of two +hard-boiled eggs administered by a fond mother +during convalescence. So at least the story ran on +board ship, though I fancy it was just made up +to free us the more completely from apprehension. +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +Madeira is one of the loveliest islands of +the sea. The waters around it are of the deepest +blue, and its sloping fields of the richest +verdure. Funchal, the capital city, is on the +shores of a winding bay. The houses spotlessly +white, the roofs red-tiled, form a pleasing +contrast of colour with the green of the +fields and the tropical trees around about them. +Madeira belongs to Portugal. The inhabitants +are almost all of them Catholics, and very +devout. The storm of persecution that so lately +burst over the mother country has spared this +distant daughter in her sea-girt home. +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +Quitting the boat at Gibraltar, and passing +by rail through Spain and the south of France, +I reached Rome before the middle of May. +Rome is greatly changed since I knew it first, +and changed, I am free to own, for the better. +New streets have been opened, old ones +straightened and widened, and all the streets +are fairly well kept. The city has taken over +the magnificent Villa Borghese, and turned it +into a park, to which access is given, out of the +very heart of Rome, from piazza, Barberini, +along a broad highway, across the Pincian Hill. +The deep valley beyond is bridged by a lofty +embankment. No city is more favoured than +Rome in its parks and fountains. +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +Rome is greatly changed, too, spiritually, +and for the better. There is more of devotion +in the churches; more of respect, or at least of +outward respect, for the pilgrim in the streets. +In Rome ecclesiastical things are pretty much +as they have always been. There is a saying +familiar to the theologian, <i>Communia +vilescunt</i>—common things are held uncommonly cheap. +What so common as the priest in Rome! +None so poor as to do him reverence. Even a +bishop on occasion does not fare much better. +Apropos of this I have been told a story, which +to quote the well-worn Italian saying, <i>Se non +é vero, é ben trovato</i>—if not true, is a clever +take-off, and may serve to point a moral. +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +Last winter there was a grand function in +the Sixtine Chapel. The Holy Father was +there, and the place was packed with people. +They kept pressing forward in their eagerness +to get near the Pope. At last the papal guard +turned their backs to the multitude, and held +them there. A belated Cardinal tried to force +his way through, but couldn't. Taking one of +the guard by the shoulder, he told him who he +was and that he had to get by. "Oh, pardon +me, your Eminence," cried the soldier, greatly +taken aback, "I thought you were only a +Bishop!" +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +The public consistory of May the 28th, +viewed simply as a pageant, was well worth +waiting for. Cardinals and bishops, in their +scarlet and purple robes, lined the front seats, +and the elect Cardinals, in gorgeous panoply, +brought up the rear of a long procession. The +ambassadors to the Holy See and the heads +of the old noble families of Rome, were +conspicuous in seats specially reserved for them. +But what struck one as without parallel in so +august an assemblage was this singular +circumstance: a peasant from Riese sat in the +throne of Peter, and three other peasants from +Riese, two sisters and a niece, who bore about +them all the marks of their peasant ancestry, +occupied the place of honour in a tribune hard +by. It was the apotheosis of democracy. +The like had never been seen at the Papal +Court, at least since the swineherd Sixtus, the +fifth of that name, refused to receive, when +dressed as a fine lady, the mother whom he +afterwards welcomed when she came back to +him in her peasant costume. +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +It is not easy to gain admittance to a papal +consistory, and thereby hangs another tale. +From immemorial time the noble Roman families +have a sort of prescriptive right to a large +number of admission tickets, which they use +in part themselves, and in part, it is said, offer +for sale in the hotels of Rome. These are +eagerly bought up by tourists and travellers, +who are largely Protestant. Hence it comes to +pass that while a bishop often cannot get a +ticket for an attendant priest, hundreds of +Protestants and unbelievers hold prominent +places at the consistory. The story is of the +time when Pasquino (whence our English +"pasquinade") entertained the Romans with +his clever satirical skits. They took the form +of cartoons, and were placed during the night +at the foot of a statue to which all Rome was +wont to take its way to amuse itself of a morning. +After one of the public consistories, this +is what greeted the eye of Rome. Two young +men are hurrying to the Vatican. Some +curious passer-by bids them the time of day, and +would know why they hasten so. "We are on +our way," they say, "to the Vatican, to the +consistory." "But where is the use of your +going; you can't get in." "Oh, that's all +right," rejoin the confident pair, "we turned +Protestant yesterday!" +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +On leaving Rome I visited Assisi, fraught +with memories of St. Francis and St. Clare, +Loreto, also, with its Holy House, and from +Ancona crossed to Tersatto, near Fiume, where +the Angels first set down the House of the +Virgin when they came with it over the sea. I +recrossed the Adriatic to Venice in an Austrian +boat. Four of us slept in one small stateroom, +packed like sardines. I could barely squeeze +into my berth, and passed the night in dread +lest the big burly German (known to be such +by his gutturals) who occupied the upper berth +should fall through and quite flatten me out. +My sympathies have always been with the under +dog, and henceforth will be more than +ever—for I was the under sardine! +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +We came to Venice in the early morning +when the newly risen sun had turned everything +into gold. There she sat a queen upon +the waters. Small wonder that one Joseph +Sarto should have pined, and pines still, in his +prison-palace of the Vatican, for this old home +of his on the sea, which it is his inclement +destiny never more to set eyes on. Venice is a +city without streets. Instead there are canals +and corridors—canals where glide the +swan-like gondolas, and corridors between the +houses, so narrow that people living on +opposite sides may shake hands across. +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +While I sat writing the last paragraph the +life of Pope Pius the Tenth was slowly ebbing +away. He was passing to the better world, +where the wicked cease from troubling, and +the weary are at rest. He had fought the good +fight, he had kept the faith. He had laboured +while yet it was day, knowing that the night +cometh when no one can labour more. His +was a truly simple and apostolic life. He had +a single eye to the glory of God and the good +of his fellow-man. If ever there was one who +could say that he sought not the office, but +that the office sought him, he was the Pope +whose loss we mourn. He has done an enduring +work for God and the Church, and has left +an inspiring example of a life untainted with +worldliness and fragrant with faith and good +works. <i>Eternal rest grant to him, O Lord, and +let light perpetual shine upon him!</i> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +I spent a night in Domodossola just beyond +the beautiful Lago Maggiore, in the Italian +Alps. Here the Rosminian Fathers have a +college for boys, largely attended. A unique +feature of the museum is a room filled with +labelled specimens of the different kinds of stone +taken from the great Simplon tunnel—an almost +endless variety. Beyond the Simplon, on +the Swiss side, the train, which is driven by +electricity, passes along the side of a precipitous +mountain. An Alpine river winds its way +two thousand feet below. From the window +of the train I caught a glimpse of a flying +aeroplane, about midway down. Far beyond +on the other side the eye rested on great fields +of untrodden snow. The valleys of Switzerland +are for the most part so narrow that it +is easy to get a good view of the wonderful +mountain scenery. +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +At Berne I had just time to pay a visit to +my old acquaintances—I dare not say friends—the +bears. There are as many as seven of +them now in the underground enclosure across +the Aar river, the cubbies that I saw on my +first visit having grown into bears. I bought +one or two specimens of the beast in wood, and +saw many more that would have made interesting +additions to my former repertoire—bears +painting, bears playing cards, bears playing +the piano, bears working in wood, bears +smoking long German pipes, bears nursing sick +bears, and bears rejoicing in the birth of cubbies! +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +From Berne I passed to Strassburg, from +Strassburg along the banks of the Rhine to +Cologne, and from Cologne to Aix-la-Chapelle, +known to me from schooldays as a place where +peace treaties were signed. Peace then +brooded on the land, a land of plenty, smiling +with promise of a rich harvest. But on every +hand were soldiers, and the whole nation +appeared to be cast in a military mould. Whatever +the outcome of the terrible war into which +Europe is plunged to-day, the future historian +will record and lay due stress on this significant +fact, that Germany led the world in war-like +preparation, and that other nations did but +strive to keep pace with her. +</p> + +<p> +The return voyage, on the Empress of Britain, +was almost without incident. One day of +storm we had, in mid-ocean, when our big ship +was tossed about and great seas broke over +her. A day or two later, on the banks of +Newfoundland, an iceberg was sighted almost +directly ahead. It looked ghostlike as it loomed +up out of the haze, and the air for miles around +was chill as winter. I left the ship at +Rimouski, about sunrise of a July morning, close +to the spot where her sister ship went down a +few weeks before with almost every soul on +board. At Rimouski I took an eastbound train +to my old home, feeling, as I never felt before, +the force of Sir Walter's undying lines: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Breathes there a man with soul so dead<br> + Who never to himself hath said,<br> + This is my own, my native land!<br> + Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,<br> + As home his footsteps he hath turned<br> + From wandering on a foreign strand.<br> +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p class="transnote"> +[Transcriber's note: The material in French without accents +is as printed, as are any odd and unusual spellings.] +</p> + +<p><br><br><br><br></p> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79240 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/79240-h/images/img-cover.jpg b/79240-h/images/img-cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e30d6d3 --- /dev/null +++ b/79240-h/images/img-cover.jpg diff --git a/79240-h/images/img-front.jpg b/79240-h/images/img-front.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a7ee6f6 --- /dev/null +++ b/79240-h/images/img-front.jpg |
