WEDNESDAY, JUNE 2, 1900
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!
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.
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.
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.
* * *
PENTECOST SUNDAY, JUNE 3.
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.
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.
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.
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.
* * *
MONDAY, JUNE 4.
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."
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.
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.
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.
* * *
TUESDAY, JUNE 5.
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.
* * *
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 6.
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.
* * *
THURSDAY, JUNE 7.
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.
* * *
FRIDAY, JUNE 8.
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.
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.
* * *
SATURDAY, JUNE 9.
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.
* * *
TRINITY SUNDAY, JUNE 10.
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."
* * *
MONDAY, JUNE 11.
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:
Male voice: "Open the porthole."
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).
Male voice: "Mine is open."
Female voice (sarcastically): "Don't fall
through."
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.
* * *
PARIS, MONDAY, JUNE 18.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
* * *
GENEVA, SUNDAY, JUNE 24, 1900.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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:
Cantique des Pelerins Canadiens
a Paray le Monial.
(AIR: PITIE, MON DIEU.)
I.
Des bords lointains de la Nouvelle France,
Du Canada, Maitre, nous accourons;
O Roi des rois, a Vous notre allegeance.
A votre Coeur, nous nous consacrons.
Coeur adorable,
Foyer d'amour,
Le pays de l'erable
Est a Vous sans retour.
II.
Peuples, debout! le Maitre nous appelle,
Rallions-nous autour du Sacre-Coeur;
Il faut au monds une seve nouvelle:
Allons tous boire aux sources du Sauveur.
Coeur adorable,
Nous voici tous,
Nous venons, Coeur aimable,
Chercher la vie en vous.
III.
Nos maux sont grands, nous sommes bien coupables,
Mais Vous, mon Dieu, vous etes toujours bon;
Vous avez fait les peuples guerissables,
Il leur suffit de Vous crier: Pardon!
Coeur adorable,
Qui nous aimez,
A la terre coupable,
Coeur divin, pardonnez.
IV.
Coeur de Jesus, que tous les coeurs soient votres,
Au cher pays, en la France, en tous lieux!
Par votre amour, unis les uns aux autres,
Nous serons forts et nous serons heureux.
Nous voulons etre
A Vous, Jesus;
Prenez nos coeurs, bon Maitre,
Et ne les rendez plus.
V.
Daignez benir notre chere Patrie,
Tous nos foyers, nos Pretres, nos Pasteurs;
Et que toujours, de Jesus, de Marie,
Les Canadiens soient loyaux serviteurs!
Coeur adorable,
Gardez tou jours
Au pays de l'erable
La foi des anciens jours.
Hymn of the French-Canadian
Pilgrims at Paray le Monial.
From the shores of far New France,
From Canada, Lord, we come;
O King of Kings, we swear fealty to Thee,
And to Thy Sacred Heart we consecrate ourselves.
Adorable Heart,
Fountain of Love,
The Land of the Maple
Is Thine forevermore.
II.
Hark, ye peoples! the Master calls us,
Let us rally round His Sacred Heart.
The world needs the sap of a new life;
Let us all go and drink at the fountains of the Saviour.
Adorable Heart,
Behold us all here,
We come, O loving Heart,
To find life in Thee.
III.
Great are our sins, our souls are stained with guilt,
But Thou, my God, Thou art ever merciful,
In Thee is healing for the Nations;
Enough that they cry out: Forgive!
Adorable Heart
That lovest us;
Pardon, Heart Divine,
The guilt-stained world.
IV.
Heart of Jesus, may all hearts be Thine,
In our own dear country, in France, in every land!
Bound together by the bonds of Thy love,
We shall find strength and happiness.
Thine, O Jesus,
We would be;
Take our hearts, dear Lord,
And make them Thine for ever.
V.
Deign to bless our dear Country,
Our Homes, our Priests, our Bishops;
And may Canadians ever be
Faithful Servants of Jesus and Mary!
Adorable Heart,
Always conserve
To the Land of the Maple
The Faith of our Fathers!
* * *
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.
* * *
LUCERNE, WEDNESDAY, JUNE 27.
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.
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.
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.
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.
* * *
ROME, JULY 6TH, 1900.
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.
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.
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.
* * *
GENOA, FRIDAY, JULY 13.
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.
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.
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.
"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."
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.
We loved that hall, tho' white and cold
Those niched shapes of noble mould
A princely people's awful princes,
The grave, severe Genoese of old.
—Tennyson, "The Daisy."
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."
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:
A CHRISOFORO COLOMBO LA PATRIA
Ah, those might-have-beens of an unborn past!
It is bootless to speculate upon them.
LOURDES, JULY 19, 1900.
"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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
* * *
LOURDES, SATURDAY, JULY 21.
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.
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
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM.