Chapter XVII

THE END.

The admiral telegraphed at once to Sir Simon, informing him of what had happened. It was no surprise, therefore, when, on the morning of the funeral, the baronet walked into Clide’s room. The meeting was affectionate but sad. Clide had no heart to give a joyous welcome to his old friend. Even Franceline for the time was forgotten. The shock of the tragic death he had just witnessed had shattered his airy castles to pieces. He was, as yet, too much under the solemn spell of that event to turn his mind to the brightness that it might have made an opening for in the future.

Mrs. de Winton had come up from Wales, and was for taking Clide with her to a more suitable residence than his dingy lodgings; but he refused to stir until all was over, and she knew, as did all who knew Clide, that when he made up his mind to do or not to do a thing, he was immovable as fate. When the little band who had followed Isabel to the grave returned, they went by appointment to see the medical man under whose care she had spent the last months of her life. Mr. Percival, who, strangely enough, had not been at the funeral, was to be there to meet them. He was in the room when they entered. Sir Simon Harness started on perceiving him. “Mr. Plover! I hardly expected to meet you here.”

“Plover!” echoed Clide and Mr. Simpson.

“Can I see you alone? What we have got to say had better be said privately.”

Clide made a gesture of assent, and the doctor showed them into an adjoining room.

The outline of Mr. Prendergast’s confession is already known; it is only necessary to fill it up with a few details of interest. Isabel was not his own niece, but the step-niece of his wife by her first husband, an Italian singer, from whom the girl inherited her gift of song. She was thrown on the care of Mr. Prendergast when quite a child. He was a needy adventurer, and determined to make her voice useful; for this end he cultivated it to the highest degree. But there was madness in her family. Just as her musical education was complete, and she was preparing to come out on a provincial stage in Italy, her mind became deranged, and he was obliged to place her in an obscure lunatic asylum near Milan. Meanwhile, he travelled as agent to a large London firm, and saw a great deal of life, chiefly in the West Indies. On his return he found Isabel recovered and in splendid voice. Complete change and travelling were advised as the best means of strengthening her against the danger of a relapse. He took her to America; then followed her marriage and her flight. Whether the fraud that she had practised on Clide was entirely a deliberate falsehood, prompted by that strange cunning which is one of the characteristics of madness, or whether it was the delusion of a disordered brain, it signified little now to him; it was certain that she had become fully alive to the fact that she had grossly deceived her husband, and that discovery would ruin her. Rather than face it, she fled and threw herself on her uncle for pity and protection. Then followed the checkered life: now the glare of the footlights, now the obscurity of a lunatic asylum. It had been her own passionate desire to go on the stage—so Mr. Prendergast said—and he had only yielded to it because he saw there was no other course open to her. Her terror of her husband’s anger was so great that the idea of being discovered by him threw her into a state of despair which threatened to unsettle her brain beyond all chance of recovery. She had caught a glimpse of him from her window at Dieppe, and insisted on her uncle’s carrying her off that very night, or else she would commit suicide. The excitement of the stage soon brought on a return of madness. Prendergast locked her up and went abroad again on a commission; fell in with Russian Jews on the borders of China, bought valuable stones from them, and returned to fulfil the dream of his life: to buy a country place and live “like a gentleman.” He found Isabel again recovered, and with her voice in greater power than ever. The offer of a fabulous sum for one season from a manager who had long had his eye on the beautiful young soprano tempted her uncle; he accepted an engagement for her at St. Petersburg. A London milliner who

“And now I have made a clean breast of it; you know everything,” he said, bringing his narrative to a close.

“No, not everything,” replied Mr. de Winton, fixing a searching look on him. “You have not explained the motives of your own conduct throughout. You changed your name twice; you persistently avoided me; you had recourse to unworthy subterfuges to escape detection. Admitting that my poor wife was, as you say, too frightened to trust me or to let me know what she was doing, it was your duty to communicate with me, and to give me at least the option of providing for her, instead of compelling her to foster the disease that was destroying her by adopting the career of an actress. What motive had you for not doing this? I give you the choice of telling the truth yourself; if you refuse, I must take other means of finding it out.”

Mr. Prendergast hesitated. There was evidently something yet to be told which he shrank from avowing; but, as Clide intimated, he must either confess it of his own accord or be driven to do so.

“You are right,” he said. “I had a motive in avoiding you; in keeping out of the way, not only of you, but of everybody. You may have heard of a great speculation started ten years ago in Canada, called the Ramason Company?”

“I remember hearing of it; it was a disreputable affair. My uncle, Admiral de Winton, took shares in it and lost heavily by the transaction.”

“I was the man who started that company, and I ruined many by inducing them to take shares in it. I was obliged to keep out of the way for several years, lest I should be seized and made amenable for felony. About a year ago the one man who swore to bring me to the hulks for it died. I don’t think there is any one now who would be at the trouble of prosecuting me; but I am in your power. You can hand me over to the law, if you choose; vengeance is sweet and it is within your grasp. Only remember,” he cried, with a sudden change from dogged indifference to a more appealing tone—“remember that as we judge we shall be judged; remember that we are standing both of us by a new-made grave, and that, if I have sinned, I have already eaten the bitter fruit of my misdoing. I was a poor man, struggling to live; fighting for the bread I ate. If I had been born to estates and a fortune, I should have been no worse than others who have done no evil because they have never been tempted. Think of this, Mr. de Winton, and for the sake of her who bore your name, and who, in the midst of her poor mad wanderings, brought no dishonor on it, be merciful!”

There was nothing abject in the way the wretched man thus threw himself on Clide’s clemency. He did not cringe or whine; he threw down his arms and appealed to the generosity of his conqueror. Clide was generous, and a generous

“What mercy is it that you ask of me?” he answered. “The mercy that you need most it is in no man’s power to give or to withhold. You have lent yourself for years to a course of cruelty and falsehood—cruelty to the unhappy child whose friendlessness and terrible misfortune should have claimed your pity and protecting care; falsehood to me, whom you well-nigh led into committing a great crime and involuntarily causing the shame and ruin of another. But I will take no vengeance on you. Go and ask for mercy where you have most sinned.”

* * * * *

Sir Simon had started without an hour’s delay on receiving the admiral’s telegram announcing Isabel’s death. If he had waited for the first post, it would have brought him a line from Ponsonby Anwyll to say that he was setting off the next day, and hoped to be at the Villa des Olives nearly as soon as his letter. Roxham would join him at Marseilles, and thence they would go on together.

So while Simon was rushing to London Ponsonby was rushing out of it; he presented himself with Lord Roxham at the villa the day after his host’s departure. Their surprise was very great when they were informed that Sir Simon was not there, and that M. de la Bourbonais and his daughter were the only occupants of the house. They asked to see them, and were very cordially received, but it was quite clear they were not expected. All the explanation Raymond could give of Sir Simon’s extraordinary conduct was that he had received a telegram the day before which obliged him to set out for London immediately; he had not entered into any explanation, but the intelligence was apparently rather exciting than painful, for he had gone away in very good spirits. The travellers looked at each other in perplexity. What were they to do? To come and install themselves at the villa was impossible, not so much on account of the host’s absence as because of Franceline’s presence. Raymond was discussing the same difficulty in his own mind, and was sorely puzzled as to what he was expected to do. Lord Roxham came to his assistance:

“The fact is, we have been too precipitate; we ought to have waited for another letter from Harness. However, it really does not much matter as far as the journey is concerned. I was on my way to these parts, and Anwyll is very lucky in getting a month’s leave and the chance of exploring this pretty place with a cicerone like myself. We shall have no difficulty, I dare say, in getting some tolerably comfortable quarters at a hotel in the town. You, count, will perhaps kindly put us in the way of that. What is the best hotel here?”

Giacomo, the odd man and general out-door factotum, runner-of-errands, and finder-out-of-everything, was called and despatched to the hotel with the gentlemen’s luggage and proper instructions about their requirements. This essential point once settled, all restraint was at an end. M. de la Bourbonais felt free to allow his courtesy full play and to offer all the hospitality that he wished to the two Englishmen. He insisted on their remaining to dinner; they had just half an hour to refresh themselves before it would be ready. Franceline joined her father so graciously in urging the request that they yielded a not unwilling assent.

M. de la Bourbonais himself, they sincerely regretted and apologized for it. Raymond had replied graciously to both, and so the old kind feeling was restored. He retained a grateful recollection, too, of Ponsonby’s prompt though formal salutation when Mr. Charlton had passed on, cutting him dead.

The evening passed pleasantly as the party sat chatting away on the terrace, with the young May moon shining down on the blue waves that beat against the pebbly beach with a murmurous plash. Franceline had all sorts of questions to ask about Dullerton after nearly three months’ absence—a long time at her age. She seemed astonished that there was nothing remarkable to tell about the place and the people during that interval, and I am afraid that Sir Ponsonby Anwyll drew on his imagination now and then, rather than acknowledge the humiliating fact that he knew nothing concerning the thing he was catechised about. He talked of probable plans and contemplated movements of the various persons, as if plans and movements entered into the lives of the homespun natives of Dullerton at all.

It was late when the two young men took leave, with the promise to return early next morning for a drive by the sea. Sir Simon had contrived a wonderful nondescript vehicle, a cross between a char-à-banc and a wagonette, with an awning supported by iron rods, so as to obviate the necessity for umbrellas or parasols. Franceline was to do the honors of this and show them the beauties of the coast.

They were punctual to their appointment, and everybody enjoyed the drive exceedingly. They dined at the Villa des Olives again that day, and there was more sitting out on the terrace and endless conversations.

* * * * *

Clide, meantime, was waking up as from a bad dream. As soon as the cloud of those few hurried days was dispelled, he seemed suddenly to cast off the chill of awe that had fallen on him by his wife’s dying-bed, and clung to him until the grave had closed on her and shut out that chapter of his life for ever. Then youth vindicated itself, the elastic spring rebounded, and the future that yesterday was out of sight began to dawn brightly on him once more. The yearning to see Franceline, to claim her for his own, asserted itself with a force that was only the greater for being so long repressed. But now that all obstacles were removed on his side, it remained to be seen whether she was still free—free at heart, and willing to be his; it was possible—nay, did not his better sense add probable—that the seed of love he had sown in her heart had perished there before this, chilled by his neglect, crushed to death by his seeming faithlessness and desertion.

parties by sunrise and conversations by moonlight; passionately in love with her, and Raymond most anxious for the success of his suit. Sir Simon had sounded him before he invited Anwyll to Nice. Was Franceline made of different stuff from every other woman in every other country that she could remain proof to all this, and not ignite at the contact of this faithful flame, not yield to this unyielding perseverance? Sir Simon thought not. Clide thought differently; but the wish, with him, might too easily engender the belief.

Strange to say, neither he nor Sir Simon felt the least alarm concerning Lord Roxham. Yet there could be no doubt as to which would be pronounced the more dangerous rival of the two by any competent jury of young ladies. He was far better-looking than Ponsonby Anwyll, more intelligent and agreeable, and he was the son of a peer to boot. This last attraction would no doubt constitute a much less dangerous man a formidable rival in the eyes of most English young ladies. But Franceline de la Bourbonais was not English, nor endowed with that fine native faculty which enables a woman to look at a man through the crystallizing medium of a peerage and discern its magically beautifying power. Still, considering that she did not love Ponsonby Anwyll when he presented himself at the Villa des Olives, there is no denying that Lord Roxham was a rival of whom the young squire of Rydal might justly have been afraid. Sir Simon had no deeply-laid plot or counterplot in his mind when he asked him; he did not mean to play him off against Ponsonby, as he had once played him off against Clide; he merely thought it would make it pleasanter to have him. It would throw Franceline more off her guard, too, perhaps. He was roving about the Pyrenees, and he might just as well come on and spend a little while with them at Nice.

Clide said very little while Sir Simon ran on about the contents of Franceline’s letter, and proceeded to expound his views on the possible state of affairs at the villa since he had left.

“Yes; I see the danger,” he said at length: “Anwyll has had the field so far to himself with all odds on his side; her father, who could make her do almost anything short of a sin to please him, is backing him up. Well, à la grâce de Dieu! I will start with you for Nice by this night’s mail.”

* * * * *

It was an hour after sunrise—the sweetest hour of the day. Franceline was an early riser, and seldom missed the enjoyment of a short walk by the sea in the freshness of the early morning. To-day, however, she was not walking; she was sitting on the beach at the foot of the garden that sloped down to the water’s edge, sitting with her milk-white hands in her lap, without book or work, gazing vacantly at the advancing tide and at the sunlight dancing on the waves. She was tired; she had slept badly—hardly slept at all, indeed—and she wanted the fresh sea-breeze to revive her, and the solitude of the silent beach to help her to come to a decision that she had

“My child, here is a message that I have been charged with for thee; thou wilt read it alone and give me thy answer to-morrow.”

He did not add one word as to what he hoped the answer might be, but the sigh, the close embrace with which he held her to him, told Franceline plainly enough what his longing desire was. She returned his embrace in silence and carried the letter to her room. She had thought over it all night; but the night had brought her no counsel. She was still hesitating, undecided. Yet she must make up her mind one way or the other within a very short time—oh! how short a time. Why could she not yield? Her father desired this marriage ardently, and there was everything to recommend it. Ponsonby loved her so sincerely, with such a humble, honest, manly love. It was no light thing to fling away such a gift as this. A faithful heart is not an offering to be cast aside as if it were a “common thing with more behind,” to be picked up at any moment. It was in all probability the turning point of her life that she was now called upon to decide; if she let the tide go by, it might never flow towards her again. Franceline would have made small account of this if she had had only herself to consider. She was happy as she was, and would gladly have renounced all hope or chance of changing her present lot; she had no ambition, and she did not realize the future keenly enough to forecast probabilities and take precautions against them. She knew her father was an old man, but she never let her mind dwell on the consequences of that fact. If he were taken away first, it seemed as if life must come to an end for her; she did not want to look beyond so remote and dreaded a possibility. But she knew that he looked beyond it, during his illness especially he had said things occasionally that showed he was painfully preoccupied about her future, about what was to become of her if he went and left her alone in the world with no one to love her or take care of her. She knew that nothing could sweeten his remaining years more than to see her happily married; that, in fact, such an event would, humanly speaking, be very likely to prolong his life. This it was that kept her trembling on the verge of surrender and pleaded loudly in favor of Ponsonby’s suit. Why was it so hard to yield? There was nothing to hinder her now. If she had cared for any one else.… A bright crimson suffused her cheeks; she covered her face with her hands with an involuntary movement, as if to hide that blush of exquisite shame from the roses that were its only witnesses.

But this emotion passed away of my inclination; if that be a sign, I am safe in doing God’s will in consenting to it.” Then she remembered how she had read somewhere that God would send an angel from heaven rather than let a faithful soul go astray when striving to do his will. No angel had come to forbid her yielding, and the time pressed for her decision. Franceline buried her face in her hands, and for the next few minutes a fierce struggle went on within her. She trembled from head to foot, her pulses beat fast, a sharp pang shot through her whole being and seemed to tear it asunder for one moment, then gradually recoiled upon her will, stimulating it to a firm, irrevocable impulse. All that she had hitherto known of energy or courage was as nothing compared to what she was feeling now. She looked up and pushed back her hair, as if to see a vision more clearly. A light had gathered in her eye, a high resolve shone upon her brow. The vision was vanishing, but she saw it still: angels were beckoning. The spirit of Renunciation pointed with golden palm-branch to that hour when every sacrifice receives its crown, when every selfish denial is avenged. She stood by her father’s death-bed; life was fading away like a dream; the hour of real awakening was at hand. Conscience spoke out: “Prove thy love,” said the clear, stern voice, “accept the reality which the kind will of Heaven has appointed for you, and cast from your heart once and for ever the vain dream that it has cherished too long. Make your father happy; become the wife of this good and faithful man who loves you. Go forth, immolate yourself, and lead him to the light of truth.”

“Am I to read it?”

“Yes, father; it is you who have written it,” she said, kissing him.

Before M. de la Bourbonais could reply, Angélique and the major-domo came in with the breakfast, and kept fussing in and out of the room while it lasted; so it was some little time before he was able to go out on the terrace and read the letter alone.

Franceline did not wait to see its effect upon him. She escaped to her room, and sat there until he should call for her; but instead of this Raymond took up his straw hat and went straight out of the house. She saw him walk with a quick, buoyant step down the garden and disappear into the road. He was gone with her answer to Ponsonby, guessing rightly that until he received it the young man would not venture to return to the villa, and that her father was impatient to make the lover happy. Franceline saw him go forth bearing the fiat that decided her destiny, that placed a stranger henceforth between them, dividing with another the duty and the life that had hitherto been all his own. Oh! if she had but loved the other as it was in her to love the man who was to be her husband. A cry that was almost a shriek escaped from her, and she threw herself upon the ground in a paroxysm of tears. But this weakness was soon over; she arose and hurried out of the house, so as to avoid meeting Angélique or any of the servants, and went down to the beach.

The tide was in; she seated herself in the crevice of a rock—a favorite seat, where she was sheltered from the sun and surrounded by the beautiful blue sea on every side. She had taken a book with her, dutifully opened it where the marker was, and then leaned her head against the side of the rock and began to dream. How pleasant it would be if she could drift away in one of those white fishing-boats, herself and her father, to some “fair isle of the blest” where there is no marrying or giving in marriage, where no winged angels come with cruel messages of duty to weak, reluctant hearts! Was that steamer whose smoke was curling like a dark snake in the pure blue atmosphere bound for one of these happy isles? Oh! would that she were on it and making for that haven of rest. She must have sat a long time dreaming her dreams, for the steamer was a long while out of sight and the water had risen almost to her feet, when she heard Angélique’s voice calling her up and down the garden. She did not move. It was Ponsonby come back with her father, no doubt, to salute her as his bride. Let him wait; there was time enough. Angélique went on calling for some minutes, and then ceased. Franceline thought she had given it up, and was congratulating herself on the reprieve, when she heard the sound of footsteps falling heavily on the pebbles close behind the rock. There was no use resisting; she must go to this impatient lover at once, it seemed. She rose with a weary, resigned sigh, and was stepping over the ledge of the rock to gain the terrace, when, looking

“Franceline! my darling! my own!” he murmured, straining her passionately to him.

She had not fainted; she was only stunned. Rallying in an instant, she struggled to free herself, and looking at him with a frightened, bewildered glance, “How is this? What do you mean? Are you free?” she exclaimed.

“Should I dare to come to you, to speak to you thus, to clasp you to my heart, if I were not free? O Franceline, Franceline! have you known me so little all this time?”

Her head drooped upon his shoulder, and she struggled no more; he gathered her to his heart, and she did not draw away her face from the warm kisses that he pressed on it.

Angélique’s voice breaking in upon this moment of rapture roused her to the remembrance of other things: her father’s errand, the letter, she had written engaging herself as Ponsonby Anwyll’s wife.

“O Clide, Clide!” she cried, putting her hand to her forehead with a look of agonized distress.

“My darling! what is it?”

But Angélique was down on them now, and began to scold the young girl for letting her shout herself hoarse calling to her this hour past without an answer, until she thought Mam’selle must have fallen asleep and dropped into the sea; that’s what would happen some of these days, and then her body would be carried off by the tide to the north pole, and M. le Comte would die of grief, and the only thing for Angélique to do would be to drown herself. Clide tried to divert the vials of the old woman’s wrath towards him, and so cut her short in this dismal horoscopic view of the family history. M. de la Bourbonais, meanwhile, was hastening to meet them; the sight of his smiling countenance sent a dagger through Franceline. She embraced Sir Simon, hurriedly, and then ran to her father.

“You went with that letter?” she whispered.

“Yes, my little one; I went straight off with it.”

“Ha! Then he knows already? You have given it to him?”

“No; unluckily, he was not at home. They had just gone out when I got to the hotel.”

“O father! thank God! Then give it to me quick!” She flung her arms round his neck, and kissed him with an energy that nearly sent his spectacles flying into the Mediterranean.

“Eh, eh? What is the matter? What is this?” said Raymond, rescuing the precious lunettes and refixing them on his nose.

“Father, I will not marry him. I am engaged to Clide de Winton!”

* * * * *

The sun was not long risen—for the dew was still glistening on the deep-bladed grass, and the birds were babbling in their nests as they do in the fresh dawn before men are astir to drown the delicious concert—when three figures might be seen wending towards the little gray church, where Father Henwick was awaiting them. They found the door open and the candles lighted on the altar, although there was not a soul in the church but themselves.

I dare say you recognize the three at a glance, though it may surprise

The church was beautifully arrayed in flowers and evergreens and banners of every hue. For this is to be Franceline’s wedding-day, and she has come with her fiancé and her father to ask a blessing on it.

There was something peculiarly sweet and thrilling in the sound of the bell through the almost empty church, and the voice of the priest reverberating in the solemn silence, tender and tremulous as a throb that broke from his inmost heart.

The walk home was silent; only, when they entered the park, M. de la Bourbonais stood a moment and, looking down on the little cottage where he and his child had suffered so much and known so many happy days, he said with an emotion which he made no effort to conceal: “My children, God has been very good to us; to me especially—for I have deserved it least. I shall not live long to prove that I am grateful; but you who are young—you will both of you love him and thank him for me all your lives.”

Clide’s only answer was a silent pressure of the hand, while Franceline fell upon her father’s breast and wept a few sweet tears.

* * * * *

Yes, the wedding-day had arrived; the sun shone brightly, everything was bright, everybody seemed happy. Miss Merrywig sported a splendid new gown for the occasion—pale blue silk, with rosebuds and forget-me-nots on a broad, white satin stripe, most appropriate for a wedding; and such a bargain! She was entreating Lady Anwyll to make a guess—just one guess—at what it had cost; but Lady Anwyll fought off, declaring it would only make her envious if she knew, and, besides, she wanted Miss Merrywig to keep her bargain as fresh as possible for another episode like the present which would be taking place soon, she hoped, in the neighborhood. She would not say more; it was rash to speak of these matters until everything was quite settled; but it had long been suspected by the whole county that that sweet little Lady Lucy B—— and Ponce were planning some mischief together. Then followed whisperings and squeezing of hands between the two old ladies, which were presently interrupted by a loud, premonitory buzz through the great Gothic hall where the guests were fast assembling from the adjoining rooms. Sir Simon appeared, marshalling the twelve pink and white bridemaids into ranks on the broad landing at the top of the stairs. Down they came gliding as softly as a sunset cloud, and stood below awaiting the bride. Everybody whose acquaintance you have made ever so slightly at Dullerton is present, I think—everybody except Sir Ponsonby Anwyll, who sent his good wishes and regrets by his mother, explaining that he had not been able to get home just at present.

And now a murmur, deep and prolonged, runs through the gay crowd. The bride is coming; stately she steps down the grand oak stairs, leaning on her father’s arm. To my mind, she is the sweetest, loveliest bride that ever “the sun shone on.” But then, to be sure, I may be prejudiced. I wish I could describe her dress to you; but it would be very

M. de la Bourbonais looked very happy as he passed through the sympathetic groups with his clair-de-lune on his arm; there was subdued joy on his venerable face that smoothed away all painful traces of his late illness, and almost obliterated the lines of age and the deeper furrows of care on his thoughtful brow.

As to Clide de Winton, everybody declared that he bore himself admirably on this most trying occasion, presenting a model of what a bridegroom ought to be—manly, dignified, and simple; he made a speech at the wedding breakfast, and it was pronounced capital. I don’t think the effort proved such a very severe trial to him, either, as he had once expected, for when Mrs. de Winton, who had expanded like a sunflower in cordiality that day, asked him with an arch smile whether he found the ordeal very dreadful, Clide answered frankly that it was not so trying as he had anticipated, and that, even when the worst was said, a wedding ceremony, with all its fuss, was not an unmitigated evil.

THOMISTIC PHILOSOPHY.[104]

There is some evidence of the undue conceit which the present age has of its learning and culture in the fact that the works of the great writers of the middle ages indefinitely surpass our best literary productions in intellectual acumen and in the depth and width of real philosophical science. St. Thomas commences his Summa Theologica by telling us that it is to be an elementary work for the use of beginners in the study of sacred doctrine, according as the apostle says, Tam parvulis in Christo, lac vobis potum dedi, non escam. This book for junior students, this “milk for babes” of the mediæval times, is nowadays somewhat strong for the mental digestion of full-grown men, not excepting those whose minds have been carefully trained under the tuition of judicious preceptors. It was no doubt the modesty of the saint which prompted him to speak in this manner of that most wonderful work. Had he lived in such days as ours, so remarkable for feebleness of intellect, so conspicuous for contemptuousness, for self-confidence and self-sufficiency, such language would not have been possible with him; for he could only have used it in the bitterest sarcasm, which is utterly foreign to his meek and gentle character.

St. Thomas. In the judgment of posterity Goudin has erred somewhat, but not so much, certainly, as the school which he opposed; for the Cartesian doctrines have proved the source of many subsequent errors, as scepticism, rationalism, pantheism, atheism. The mistakes of Goudin simply regard some of the details of physical science which, whether correctly or erroneously explained, tend little to the benefit of our fellow-beings, although interesting enough to the minds of the well educated.

We are assured that the strictest Thomists are not bound to adhere to the details of the physics of their master. The Angelic Doctor, in matters of this kind (which, we submit, concern little the theologian, or the metaphysician, or the moralist), adopted the prevailing opinions of the time. We do not read that he ever showed much enthusiasm for natural or experimental science, and in this respect he differed from his friend and quondam preceptor, Albertus Magnus. But in those fundamental questions of philosophy which are intimately connected with our moral conduct and with natural or positive religion, and indeed in all questions where St. Thomas is bound to think for himself, we do not find that he simply endorses the teaching of another. When it is objected by knowing people that Aquinas teaches doctrines which are exploded or puerile—as, for instance, that the earth is stationary, or that the east is the right hand of the heavens—it would be well for them to reflect that these are rather the doctrines of the universally-admired Aristotle than of his Christian disciple.[105]

Father Gonzales (since created Bishop of Cordova) has given to the church an excellent manual of Thomistic doctrine. At the outset, he seeks to determine the sense of the word philosophy. This is no easy matter, as the definitions given by different authors are many and various. Cousin declares it to be—reflection completely emancipated and freed from the trammels of authority, so that reason depends solely upon itself for the acquisition of truth. By the subjectivists of Germany it is the Ego as it places and offers itself by thesis and antithesis. According to Kant, it is the necessary science of the laws and causes of spontaneous reason. Cicero says that philosophy is rerum divinarum et humanarum causarumque, quibus hæ res continentur, scientia; and this is, perhaps, the popular notion of the word, so that all scientific studies are included in the general term of philosophy. Thus we speak of the philosophy of history, the philosophy of language, the philosophy of manufactures, of laws, and so forth. A writer of the name of Mr. Robert Hooke tries to impress upon his readers the vast extent of philosophy in the following curious dissertation:

“The history of potters, tobacco-pipe makers, glass-grinders, looking-glass makers or foilers, spectacle-makers and optic-glass makers, makers of counterfeit pearl and precious stones, bugle-makers, lamp-blowers, color-makers, color-grinders, glass-painters, enamellers, varnishers, color-sellers, painters, limners, picture-drawers, makers of babies’ heads, of little bowling stones or marbles, fustian-makers, music-masters, tinsey makers and taggers; the history of school-masters, writing-masters, printers, bookbinders, stage-players, dancing masters and vaulters, apothecaries, chirurgeons, seamsters, butchers, barbers, laundresses, and cosmetics, etc., etc. (the true nature of each of which being exactly determined), will hugely facilitate our inquiries in philosophy.”

By most scholastics philosophy is defined as a cognitio certa et evidens. These are the words of Goudin, and we observe that they are adopted by Father Lepidi in the first volume of his new work. Gonzales, however, demurs to assent to this, for the reason that in philosophy many questions are discussed of which we have neither evidence nor certainty. The objection is inserted and responded to in Father Lepidi’s book, and also in the works of Goudin. The proper and primary object of philosophy is certain and evident; it treats of questions that are obscure only secondarily and consequenter. Nevertheless, Gonzales prefers to define philosophy as cognitio scientifica et rationalis Dei, mundi et hominis, quo viribus naturalibus per altiores causas seu principia habetur. In the latter words of the definition he is in conformity with the rest of his school, but in the first part—that is, in the genus of the definition—he differs from them.

The essence of philosophy being determined, at least in the sense in which the author is going to treat of it, we are next invited to decide upon a suitable division. The older scholastics had divided it into four parts: logic; physics, whose object was ens mobile, or all changeable nature; metaphysics, which treated of being in the abstract, and all concrete objects which transcend the powers of the senses; and ethics. Some added a fifth part—namely, mathematics. Goudin’s definition of philosophy seems capable of embracing this science also; however, he disposes of it, whether consistently or not we need not stop to inquire.

Later Christian writers, who have adhered in the main to the doctrines of the scholastics, have somewhat varied their division. Physics in its details is excluded from philosophy strictly so called, while in its more universal relations it is considered as belonging to metaphysics. Thus the science of the laws of the world is called cosmology, and the science of the soul, its essence, its faculties, and its operations, is called psychology. Cosmology and psychology, together with theodicy or natural theology, are the subdivisions of special metaphysics, general metaphysics.

However, Gonzales refuses to grant that psychology belongs properly to metaphysics, because, although the soul of which it treats is beyond the ken of the senses, yet the operations of the soul depend upon them and are recognized by them. He determines, therefore, that this science belongs as much to ethics and to logic as to metaphysics: to metaphysics, inasmuch as it treats of the essence of the soul; to logic, as it regards the faculties of cognition; to ethics, as far as it concerns the moral power. Later on, when Gonzales comes to treat of psychology ex professo, he suggests that it should be either reduced again to physics or made a distinct and special portion of philosophy. Such is the unsatisfactory consideration of the question by men eminent for their science. We see in the newly-issued volume of Father Lepidi’s philosophy that in his division he leaves out altogether the words physics and metaphysics, and proposes the following heads: logic, general ontology, cosmology, anthropology, natural theology, and ethics. This mode of division seems to us, with all due deference to Bishop Gonzales and other writers, the most satisfactory. Moreover, it is explained by Father Lepidi in a most logical manner, based as it is upon two incontrovertible philosophical maxims. Before we leave this subject of the division, we will mention that proposed by the late Canon Sanseverino in his great work, which, unfortunately, was never completed. He considers philosophy under a twofold aspect, subjective and objective. Subjective philosophy is divided into four branches—logica, dynamilogia, idealogia, and criteriologia. Objective philosophy has also four parts—naturalis theologia, cosmologia, anthropologia, ethica. We observe that he is one with Father Lepidi in discarding the use of those vague terms of which we have spoken.

Father Gonzales has published his work in three volumes, the first of which comprises the tractates of Logic and Psychology. In the Logic we have noticed nothing particular to be mentioned, excepting its completeness and the exceeding clearness with which the subjects are treated. The treatise of Psychology, however, has greatly interested us, and is the best we have seen. It is divided into two parts, empiric and rational. Psychologia empirica treats of the powers of the soul, and we notice in a few instances a deviation from the explicit doctrine of Goudin. For instance, those species or representations of objects which are received in the cognitive senses, are stated by Gonzales to be immaterial and spiritual, while Goudin has said that they are material. It might, perhaps, be suggested that these species may be called immateriales negative. This epithet is allowed by the author to be applied to the anima of brutes; and as the species we speak of belong to animal life, they must be of the same nature. Cognition is a vital act, and all vitality is above the condition of that which is merely material. A very recent writer has implied that St. Thomas distinguishes immaterial and spiritual existences. We do not remember to have noticed such a distinction in his works. Perhaps the writer makes allusion to the doctrine that some operations of material beings transcend the qualities of matter—v.g., sensitive cognition. Yet these operations St. Thomas, at least not usually. This subject of cognition is well treated of by Gonzales. In another part of this treatise he endeavors to prove the necessity of an intellectus agens as distinguished from the intellectus possibilis, the passive intellect, the faculty of understanding.

In the second part of Psychology, the simplicity of the soul, its spirituality and immateriality, are clearly demonstrated. Its unity also is stoutly maintained, and the opposite errors, both ancient and modern, are stated with admirable terseness and pertinence, and then put aside as wanting in scientific consistency. With the hypothesis of one soul, all vital operations can be accounted for; with that of more than one principle of life, various phenomena could not be explained; therefore the doctrine of one principle is to be admitted.

Appended to the tractate of Psychology is a special chapter on Ideology. The various systems of Democritus, Plato, Aristotle, Locke, Leibnitz, Bonald, Malebranche, Gioberti, Kant, Schelling, Fichte, and Cousin are set aside one after another as insufficient or absurd. Then we have an exposition of the subject according to the principles of the Angelic Doctor; and this portion of the work is of unusual originality, specially interesting and instructive to many readers. The reality of ideas, as distinct intellectual representations of objects, it first established in opposition to the doctrines of those philosophers who maintain that the understanding perceives objects without the intervention of ideas or the need of an intellectus agens. The doctrine of impressed ideas as distinct from those that are expressed is insisted upon.

The origin of our ideas is thus explained: There are four kinds of ideas, ideæ primariæ abstractionis, ideæ pure intelligibiles, ideæ pure spirituales, and idea entis, and this division is applicable to both impressed and expressed ideas. We must ask pardon for our attempt to Anglicize the scholastic terms. Now, as to expressed ideas, all these have their origin from the passive intellect. The difficulty, therefore, of explaining the origin of ideas regards only those which we call ideæ impressæ, and of these only we have now to speak.

Ideas of primary abstraction, which refer to corporeal or sensible objects—as, for instance, a man, a horse, the sun—come from the active intellect, which draws them out of the species contained in the imagination. Ideas purely intellectual—as those of substance, cause, effect, good, evil—have their origin from both the active and the passive intellect: from the former, because in the ideas of primary abstraction it discovers other more universal relations, as those of good, bad, etc.; from the latter, as far as it works out and develops those germs of higher knowledge imperfectly manifested by the active intellect. As to purely spiritual ideas—those of God, of the angels, of our own souls—these have not all the same origin. If the idea of God is obtained by reasoning from that which is contingent to the conclusion that a necessary being must exist, such an idea is the product of the passive intellect, which has worked it out of impressions previously received. But if the idea of God be conceived as of the first cause of all things, then it is acquired in the same way as the ideas of causes in general, and belongs in reality to that class of ideas which are called idea expressa of our soul may become the idea impressa of an angel. As to our own soul, there is no impressed idea of it, but its operations are sufficient for the acquisition of an expressed idea of it, without any need of an abstraction of the active intellect. As to the idea of being, it is an abstraction of the active intellect, but natural and spontaneous; indeed, it is its first perception, as the expressed idea of being is the first conception of the passive intellect. And the reason of this is, that our intellectual faculties are reflections of the mind of God.

Father Gonzales next proceeds to explain in what sense scholastics understand the axiom of the Stagirite, Nihil est in intellectu, quin prius fuerit in sensu. All ideas depend upon the senses so far forth that sensible cognition must always precede that which is intellectual, and because all intellectual cognition requires an accompanying exercise of the imagination. Ideas of primary abstraction depend upon sensible representations directly and immediately; ideas purely intellectual, remotely and inadequately; ideas purely spiritual, especially of angels and of our own souls, depend upon the senses only indirectly and occasionaliter. Hence the senses are never the efficient causes of our intellectual ideas; the most that can be said is, that they are the material causes of some of them. In this sense only can we accept the maxim of the great pagan philosopher without becoming implicated in the sensism of Locke and Condillac. Gonzales next warns his students not to consider ideas as the object of intellectual knowledge; an idea is not id QUOD cognoscitur, but id QUO cognoscitur. These are the words of St. Thomas, and it is of the greatest importance to realize the doctrine, if we would avoid the Charybdis of idealism as well as the Scylla of sensism.

In the second volume we have the tractates of Ontology, Cosmology, and Natural Theology. In ontology the real distinction of essence and existence is affirmed and ably advocated, as, indeed, it usually is in works emanating from the Dominican Order. We have known personally more than one professor of that order who have differed from Gonzales and Goudin in this point, and who have taught their doctrines in the lecture rooms without scruple as the veritable teaching of St. Thomas. Our province is not to attempt to decide the question, either on its own independent merits or according to the authority of the Angelic Doctor. There are difficulties in the subject which seem to increase on examination. Father Liberatore, in the later editions of his Institutiones Philosophicæ, has passed from the ranks of those who deny the real distinction to join those who teach it, and he gives weighty reasons for doing so. We do not just now remember a conversion so conspicuous in the reverse direction; but we know of one or two such conversions, which, however, have attracted little notice.

In the treatise of Ontology there is an interesting dissertation on the principles of æsthetics. We are afraid to attempt a synopsis of it, as it would not be appreciated. Gonzales’ definition of beauty is worthy of a disciple of St. Thomas: Splendor harmonicus veri et infiniti.

The doctrine of St. Thomas, according to which he explains the mystery of the unchanged appearance

In the tractate of Cosmology the different systems of pantheism are explained and disposed of, and the doctrine of the creation of the world by a Being supreme, independent, and free is demonstrated. Then follows a discourse upon that interesting subject, the principles of bodies. Gonzales, as a staunch Thomist, upholds the doctrine of matter and form, and insists that it is the only system which is capable of satisfying the mind. Modern philosophers generally reject this system, and some of them in very contemptuous language. Cudworth, for instance, calls it genus quoddam metaphysicæ stultitiæ. Father Tongiorgi does not accept this doctrine, and seems to be persuaded that his arguments in favor of chemical atomism are unanswerable and destructive of the ancient theory. Gonzales discusses successively the systems of the atomists and the dynamists, and those go-betweens whom he calls atomistico-dynamists; and they are successively dismissed as incomplete or erroneous. Then the old scholastic or Aristotelian system is clearly and beautifully represented. There are changes going on in nature which are observed by all. Substances are corrupted and substances are generated; the corruption of one is the generation of another. These changes are called substantial mutations. And yet, in spite of all these changes, something remains ever the same. When wood is turned into fire, fire into ashes, these into earth, earth into vegetable or mineral substances, there is always something that remains unaltered in its essence. What is this thing? It is primary matter (materia prima). What is it that makes the change when wood becomes fire, or earth, or a stone? It is the new substantial form which succeeds the one that has departed by corruption. In scholastic language, the matter has changed its form.

As matter is something not knowable of itself, and could not exist, even by a miracle, without being actuated or perfected by substantial forms, it follows that its essence can be but vaguely understood. For the same reason, a scientific definition of it is not possible. Hence Aristotle thought it profitable to give a negative definition of it: Nec quid, nec quale, nec quantum, nec aliquid eorum per quæ ens determinatur. We have known this definition to excite the irrepressible merriment of several. Some people have the faculty of being able to laugh at will, even when they understand realitas substantialis et incompleta, nullum actum aut formam ex se habens, sed quæ capacitatem et potentiam habet ad universas formas substantiales. He defines substantial form. Realitas substantialis et incompleta, materiam primo actuans ac determinans ad constituendam simul cum ipsa substantiam complete subsistentem. Matter is the subject of the form; form is the perfection or actuality of matter. It is worth while to observe that Father Liberatore is a firm supporter of this theory.

To the principal objections, so cleverly put by Father Tongiorgi, against the Peripatetic system, Gonzales has always a suitable rejoinder. After a categoric respondeo to each one severally, he makes some general reflections upon them all which we will try to do into English:

“Although no answer were forthcoming to the famous objections of Tongiorgi, the scholastic system would continue to hold its own in respect of the first principles of bodies. Our system regards chiefly bodies which are simple, and bodies endowed with life. Now, none of the arguments of the Italian philosopher have any reference to either of these kinds of bodies. Consequently, they not only do not overturn the Peripatetic system of matter and form and of substantial generation, but they do not even touch the question. The most that can be inferred from his arguments is, that substantial generation does not take place in respect of inanimate bodies which are compound. Now, these compound bodies can be considered merely as bodies which are imperfect in unity of nature and substance, and as such they belong to that class of bodies which were styled by the old scholastics mixta imperfecta.”

The rest of the treatise of Ontology is well handled, especially that which regards the principle and manifestations of life. It is here that we observed a distinction we have before mentioned. The anima of the brute creation is immaterial negative and similitudinarie, for its operations transcend the conditions of matter; it is material positive, because it exists and acts only in dependence on matter.

The tractate of Theodicy is good, and contains in a short compass all that is necessary for the course of the young philosopher. As was to be expected of a Dominican author, the questions which have come to be regarded as distinctive of the schools of the order—v.g., præmotio physica and predestination ante prævisa merita—are taught and defended with the most able of available arguments.

In the third volume we have first of all a treatise of Ethics, which is interesting and contains much that is of importance for our own days. The duty of regulating our conduct according to the law of reason and of God, by the commands of the church, of our civil rulers, of society, is well set forth, and the superiority of Christian morality to all others is proved. We only regret that the treatise is not longer.

The latter part of the third volume gives an excellent epitome of the history of philosophy. This history is divided into two periods. The first starts with the beginnings of philosophy and continues to the time of Christ, in quo instaurata sunt omnia. It is subdivided into three epochs: the first from the beginning of philosophy to its introduction into Greece; the second, from that time to the days of Socrates; the third, from Socrates to Christ. The second period is from the time of Christ to our days, and has likewise three epochs: the first, from the early

As a student’s manual, we know of nothing more complete than the Philosophia Elementaria of Bishop Gonzales. It is an excellent course, both for the young cleric who is preparing for the study of the scholastics, and for the secular youth about to take his place in the world. The style of writing is simple, but by no means devoid of elegance. Spanish writers who have been trained in the schools of Melchior Cano have never been at a loss to express their thoughts in a becoming form.

We have heard many regrets that there was no modern text-book of philosophy of the school of Goudin. This want is now fully supplied by Gonzales, and it will be doubly satisfied when the rest of the volumes of Lepidi’s Elementa Philosophiæ Christianæ have appeared. We do not say that Goudin will become unnecessary; the serious student will still continue to consult him. But there can be no doubt that Gonzales’ work is more adapted to the times. It is also more terse, more interesting, more suitable to captivate the minds of youthful students. We hope that what we have said may help to make Bishop Gonzales more known among us. He has published a remarkable work in his own mother tongue, Estudios sobre la Filosofia de Santo Tomas, which would be productive of good if it were translated into English.

THE DEVOUT CHAPEL OF NOTRE DAME DE BÉTHARRAM.

La dévote chapelle de Notre Dame de Bétharram, about ten miles from Lourdes on the way to Pau, has been for eight hundred years the most renowned sanctuary in Béarn, and, to quote St. Vincent of Paul, “the second, or at least the third, most frequented in the kingdom.” Founded by the Crusaders, endowed by kings and nobles, favored by supernatural graces, the favorite resort of the poor and afflicted, sung by poets, and its history written by learned men, it has every claim on the interest of the pious heart.

We left Lourdes one pleasant morning in September in advance of a large pilgrimage from Marseilles, that we might have an opportunity of examining the church of Bétharram at our leisure. The railway runs along the valley of the Gave, leaving at the left the sacred grotto of Massabielle and the fair church of the Immaculate Conception, which stand in full view on the further shore. We passed the forest of Lourdes at the right, and in fifteen minutes came to the little village of St. Pé—Sanctus Petrus de Generoso, as the old chronicles call it—on a bend of the river, shut in by the mountains. Keeping along in St. Pé, to the station of Montaut-Bétharram, where, away to the left, we could see the cross on the Calvary, and the domes of the white oratories of the Passion gleaming among the trees on its sides. The Devout Chapel of Notre Dame de Bétharram is at the foot of the mount, on the further bank of the Gave, and wholly shut out of sight. A straight road leads to it from the station, which is about half a mile distant. The bridge that spans the river with a bold arch is extremely picturesque, the sides of the arch being completely covered with ivy, which trails to the very water and lines the steep banks. Nothing could be more romantic. Trees lean pensively over the limpid stream, and flowers bloom along the shore. The Gave, as the poet of Bétharram remarks, after rushing through the broad valley with impetuous haste, threatening to overflow the meadows with its swelling current, suddenly slackens its speed as it approaches the chapel of the Virgin, and flows gently by with a murmur of softest homage. Opposite the bridge is a long range of monastic-looking buildings with narrow windows and thick walls, the asylum of meditation and prayer. Connected therewith is the church, which stands with its side to the river, facing the west. The front, of Pyrenean marble, is adorned with white marble statues of the Evangelists with their emblems—two each side of the mild-eyed Virgin who stands above the open door treading the serpent beneath her feet.

It being early in the afternoon, we found the church delightfully quiet. There were only a few persons at prayer, and, having paid our vows at the altar of Our Lady, we proceeded to examine the building and recall its varied history. The interior of the church consists of a nave and two aisles. The latter are literally lined with confessionals. The clerestory walls are covered with paintings supported by gigantic caryatides amid a profusion of gilding and ornament somewhat Spanish in character. The whole effect is imposing, and there is an impressive air of antiquity and gloom about the church, though it was rebuilt only two centuries ago. The Madonna, a modern production, by Renoir, a pupil of Pradier, is over the high altar in the centre of a reredos, rich with gilding and carving, which extends to the very arches. At the end of the right aisle is the chapel of the Pastoure, so called from the bas-relief depicting the legend of the shepherds who discovered the Virgin of Bétharram.

The devotion to Notre Dame de Bétharram, so popular all through the Pyrenees, is supposed to have arisen in the eleventh century—an age of simple faith, when God loved IV., a prince of the Merovingian race, noted for his devotion to the Blessed Virgin, then reigned in Béarn. One of the bravest warriors who went to the rescue of the Holy Sepulchre, he directed the construction of the war-machines before the walls of Jerusalem, and was one of the first to commence the assault at the side of Godfrey of Bouillon.

We are chiefly dependent on the ancient traditions of the province for the early history of Bétharram, as the old church was burned down by the Huguenots. One of the legends attributes the name of Bétharram to a miraculous occurrence. A young girl, who was one day gathering flowers on the banks of the Gave, accidentally fell into the stream and was carried away by the current. She instinctively cried to the Virgin for assistance, who instantly appeared, holding out a leafy branch, by which she was drawn to the shore. The girl gratefully offered her celestial protectress a beautiful branch—or, to use the language of Béarn, a beth arram—of gold.

That is to say, literally:

La Bastide, the poet-priest of Bétharram in the time of the Fronde, is the first writer to mention this derivation, which furnishes him with a comparison to illustrate the mysterious effects of divine grace: “This name signifies, in the language of the country, a beau rameau—a beautiful branch—planted on the shore of the Gave by the august Virgin, yielding fruit of a delicious savor that serves for the nourishment of souls.”[106]

The old legends say a girl of the neighboring village of Lestelle, named Raymonde, predicted the erection of a church on this spot in honor of Nouste Dame, but her prophecy was scoffed at, even by her own parents. Not long after, some children, who were amusing themselves at the foot of the hill of Bétharram while tending their flocks, saw a bright flame among the sharp rocks on the banks of the river, in the very place where now stands the high altar of the Devout Chapel. Like the mysterious bush on Mount Horeb, it burned intensely without consuming the thicket around. After a moment of stupefaction the little shepherds timidly approached, and what was their astonishment to behold in the midst of the flames a beautiful statue of the Virgin and Child! They fell down before it in pious reverence, and then hurried away to Lestelle to relate the wonderful event. The inhabitants ran in crowds to the place, followed by the priest in his white surplice, who fell on his knees amid the prostrate throng and bent his face to the ground before the marvellous image.

As the place was rocky and apparently unsuitable for a chapel, the people proceeded to construct a small niche at the further end of Reyne deü Ceü had chosen for her sanctuary. Again the people began to laugh at her revelations, but she now spoke with authority, and, moved by divine inspiration, threatened them with a terrible chastisement if they refused to obey the command. And, as if to give force to her words, while they stood hesitating a sudden cloud appeared in the sky, from which fell a torrent of hailstones. The people cried to heaven for pardon and mercy, and immediately vowed to erect the chapel.

The learned Abbé Menjoulet of Bayonne thinks the church of Bétharram was built in the eleventh or early in the twelfth century, from the style of the portions still to be found here and there in the modern building. It certainly existed long before the ascendancy of the Huguenot party in Béarn, and had been for ages regarded as the holiest spot in the land. Pierre de Marca says its remote origin is lost in obscurity. The distinguished Jesuit, Père Poiré, in his Triple Couronne de la Mère de Dieu, thinks it of a later date, but he had never visited it in person. His account was derived from a magistrate of Pau. He says the ancient pilgrims, as soon as they came in sight of the Devout Chapel, fell on their knees, and completed their pilgrimage in this way with a lighted torch in their hands. Cures without number were wrought, the divine anger stayed, and whole armies put to flight at the intercession of the Boune Bierge of Bétharram. The walls were hung with the crutches of the paralytic, the chains of liberated prisoners, and the wax limbs given by those who had been healed, many of which offerings resisted the flames, and were found after the destruction of the church by the emissaries of Jeanne d’Albret.

This princess cherished a lively resentment against the Holy See on account of the alliance of Julius II. with Ferdinand the Catholic, which she thought led to the conquest of Navarre, to the injury of the house of Albret. After dissimulating her sentiments for some time, she threw off the mask and subjected the Catholics of Béarn to a violent persecution. Montgomery was the agent of her vengeance, and he was well fitted for the work. It was in 1569 that, on his destructive round through the country, he came to the sanctuary of Bétharram, which he laid waste. The miraculous Virgin, however, was saved, and, after being hidden for some time at Lestelle, was carried to Spain, where it became an object of veneration under the name of Nuestra Señora la Gasconne.

During this sad time, in which Mary’s altar lay desolate, there

As soon as it was safe to do so, the inhabitants of Lestelle, in spite of their poverty, hastened to restore the church of their Bonne Vierge, who, for more than half a century, had preserved them from the contagion of heresy. Not a person in the place had joined the Huguenots, and it was the only village in Béarn where Catholic services had been maintained.

Leonard de Trappes was at this time archbishop of Auch, the metropolitan see. He was one of the most distinguished prelates of France, and honored with the confidence of Henry IV. A man of ardent piety, and solicitous for the spiritual welfare of his flock, he founded a congregation of missionaries for the wants of his diocese, and established them at Notre Dame de Garaison under the charge of Pierre Geoffroy, who devoted his whole fortune to the work. Louis XIII. having granted permission for rebuilding the church of Bétharram, Geoffroy resolved to celebrate the event by a grand pilgrimage to this ancient shrine. He had trained a choir of mountaineers, whose superb voices greatly added to the solemnities of Garaison. Taking these men with him, Geoffroy set out with six priests for Béarn, in those days a fatiguing journey. Every one represented to him the danger of venturing into a country still in a state of agitation, but, in spite of some insults and threats on the part of the Calvinists, he pressed on, joined here and there by a band of Catholics, who at last numbered several thousand. Among them were the Baron and Baroness de Miossens from the Château de Coarraze, and many nobles.

It was a fine spring morning when this grand procession appeared on the banks of the Gave. The valley resounded with the glad hymns of the mountaineers of Garaison, in which the vast multitude joined with the utmost enthusiasm. The hill of Bétharram was literally covered with people from the neighboring towns, who, when they caught sight of the immense procession coming to reopen the church of their beloved Virgin, burst into tears and acclamations of joy. Geoffroy celebrated Mass in the church, and afterwards preached to five thousand people on the public square of Lestelle. This was forty-six years after the destruction of the sanctuary.

The niche of the Virgin was still empty. Mgr. de Trappes resolved to supply the deficiency, and had a new statue carved out of wood in the style of the old one, which he took to Bétharram himself. It was in July, 1616, he set out from Garaison with a numerous escort of priests. Passing through Lourdes, he stopped at St. Pé, whence he continued on foot, followed by all the monks, a vast number of priests from Bigorre and Béarn, all the nobility of the country, and an innumerable crowd of people with crosses and banners, carrying the new statue of the Virgin and filling the air with their hymns in her honor. Among them was Pierre de Marca.

[107] He remained several days at Bétharram, administered the sacrament of confirmation, received several Huguenots into the fold, and erected an immense wooden cross on the summit of the mount, as if he had a foresight of its future consecration to the divine Passion. He always cherished a delightful recollection of his pilgrimage, and when he died he bequeathed to the church a silver lamp, with a fund to supply it with oil to burn continually before the Virgin he had given to Bétharram.

Pierre de Marca, whom we find here with the Archbishop of Auch, was the learned author of the Antiquities of Béarn. He was made counsellor of state under Richelieu, and conceived so great a devotion to Notre Dame de Bétharram that he became the historian of the chapel. He studied its past traditions, and recorded a vast number of miracles that occurred here, with the names, dates, and other particulars, often taken from the lips of the persons themselves, many of whom belonged to the nobility of Béarn, Guienne, and Languedoc, and sworn to by reliable witnesses in the presence of the chaplains and magistrates. He relates that not long after the visit of Mgr. de Trappes, five villagers of Montaut, while eating their noontide meal on a little hillock in the valley, struck by a noise, as of a furious wind, looked towards the Mount of Bétharram, and saw the cross planted on its summit suddenly wrenched from its place and thrown on the ground, and then, as if by its own might, rise again to its former position, crowned with a mysterious light.[108]

This miraculous occurrence merits the more particular attention because it led to the construction of the famous Calvary, which continues to attract pilgrims to this day. It happened about the time Louis XIII. re-established the Catholic religion in Béarn, and was, says Marca, one of the causes that determined him to go in person to Pau, from which time he cherished a special affection for Bétharram and became one of its benefactors.

A month after the facts of the case were established, the town of Lestelle gave the hill of Bétharram to the church. The bishop of the diocese now induced Hubert Charpentier to take charge of the Devout Chapel. He was a licentiate of the Sorbonne, for some time a professor of philosophy at Bordeaux, then a missionary at Notre Dame de Garaison, where he distinguished himself by his zeal and eloquence in the pulpit, and afterwards, devoted to charitable works, director of the city hospital at Bordeaux. He was St. Clare related to him that, when she first entered the convent at Mont-de-Marsan, she found an old nun of eighty years of age, a native of the vicinity of Bétharram, who was fond of describing the glories of the miraculous chapel before the rise of heresy in Béarn, and said the place was called the Holy Land.

Charpentier’s proposition was received with so much enthusiasm that, on Good Friday, 1623, a Christ on the Cross was solemnly set up, between the two thieves, on the summit of the mount, and the oratories of the Passion were at once begun. Louis XIII. built the Chapel of St. Louis, with two cells and a gallery looking off over the beautiful valley to the gorge of St. Pé. To ensure the quiet solitude of Bétharram, he forbade the building of any inn or public-house in the neighborhood, and at his death bequeathed three thousand livres to the church.

Marie de Medicis and Anne of Austria also became its benefactors, as well as Louis XIV., who took pleasure in his youth in reading Marca’s Traité des Merveilles opérées en la Chapelle Notre Dame du Calvaire de Bétharram. Charpentier himself gave all he possessed. Madame de Gramont, Madame de Lauzun, and the Countess de Brienne also brought their offerings. La Bastide writes: “I have seen the great ones of the earth rivalling each other in the magnificence of their offerings to this august sanctuary.”

It is time we should speak of the poet of Bétharram—Pierre de La Bastide, a native of the diocese of Auch, who now became associated with the labors of Charpentier. His poems are in Latin. He is a graceful writer, with a pleasing cadence in his lines. His poem on Notre Dame de Bétharram is at once historic and descriptive. It is divided into four parts, giving the history of the foundation, a description of the Calvary and surrounding region, a résumé of the miracles in the Devout Chapel, and a picture of the life of the chaplains. The poem is at once brilliant, pleasing, and picturesque, and of great value to all who would study the history and spirit of the place.

It was at Bétharram La Bastide translated into Latin verse the French poem of Arnauld d’Andilly on the life of Christ, which was such an event in the literary world when it first appeared in 1634. At that time the graver part of society thought nothing serious could be expressed in the form of French poetry, and the religious held it in [109]

La Bastide is not the only poet to sing the praises of Our Lady of the Beautiful Branch. M. Bataille, a few years since, received from the Archæological Society of Béarn a silver bough for his charming poetical version of the legend in the Béarnais language, which he hung up over the altar of the Virgin.

The Calvary of Bétharram became dear to all who loved to retrace the overwhelming mysteries of the Redemption. The sorrowful way up the mount’s steep sides seemed to them

“A road where aiding angels came.”

Every station was marked by some memory of God’s special grace. It was in the dim, shadowy oratory of the Garden of Olives a merchant from Grenade-sur-Adour was delivered from the adversary of souls. Further on, where Christ was represented blindfolded, a poor woman recovered her sight after seven years’ blindness. At the Holy Tomb where lay the sacred Body embalmed

“In spices from the golden shore,”

the sick obtained renewed life and the grace to give out henceforth the sweet odor of piety and good works. And so on. The very shadow of Christ Suffering seemed to have power. Fifteen thousand pilgrims often came here in a year—a great number for a remote mountain chapel, less accessible in former days. Marca relates that M. de Gassion, a zealous Calvinist of Pau, came to Bétharram to behold the superstitions he supposed practised on the mount, but he was so touched by the devotion he witnessed that he was impelled to pray at every station, and thank God he had inspired his ministers with so pious and praiseworthy a project.

The chaplains established a confraternity of the Holy Cross, composed of laymen animated with a special love for our crucified Lord, which became so numerous that Pope Urban VIII. accorded many indulgences to all who belonged to it. Several of its members retired wholly from secular pursuits to the solemn gloom of this Mount of the Passion as to “a holy tower against the world,” that, by self-chastening rod, vigil, and fast, they might subdue the baser instincts of their nature and put on Christ and him crucified. What ineffable nights they must have spent beneath the oaks of Bétharram watching with tearful eyes the Divine Sufferer in the Garden or treading with bleeding feet the rough Way of the Cross!

There were many of these hermits’ cells on the shaggy sides of the mount. First, there was St. Bernard’s cell, built by the Baron de Poyane, a brave soldier who was XIII., who had the holy life of the Abbot of Clairvaux painted on its walls. A little higher was St. Cyprian’s cell, the favorite retreat of La Bastide, with a little terrace and stone steps leading down to the church. Then came the cell of St. Francis de Paul, for persons of rank who wished to pass a limited time in solitude on the mount. It stood below the chapel of St. Louis and commanded a lovely view of the plain of Montaut. Its foundations are still to be seen supporting a pretty hanging garden. St. Anthony’s cell was encrusted among the sharp rocks that served as a foundation to the chapel of Louis XIII.—a formidable cliff, bare in winter, but in summer covered with vines that surpassed the most beautiful tapestry. On its top was suspended the royal chapel among the verdant trees. Behind the church was St. Joseph’s hermitage, for a long time the only dwelling of the chaplains, where also were lodged the infirm who came for succor to the Virgin of Bétharram. Near the oratory of the Garden of Olives were the cells of St. Stephen, St. Anne, and St. Francis. A little above was the votive cell of St. Roch, built by the citizens of Mont-de-Marsan at the time of a great plague. Here was a little spring which still supplies the pretty fount of St. Roch near the entrance of the church. On the summit of the mountain was a small cell, beside the chapel of the Holy Sepulchre, where for more than two hundred years lived a succession of hermits who, buried with their Lord, gave themselves up to a life of contemplation. The last one died in 1857.

Louis XIII., in authorizing the Calvary of Bétharram, wished there were many others like it in his kingdom, and requested Charpentier to establish one on Mount Valerian, near Paris. This holy priest, whose soul was devoured with longing to extend the devotion to the sufferings of Christ, was struck with the grand idea of setting up the cross over the splendors of the capital and displaying the emblems of the Passion in sight of the gay city, as a constant reproach to its pleasure-loving people. Charpentier tore himself away from his beloved Bétharram. At Paris he was hospitably welcomed to the house of the pious Countess de Brienne, who took pleasure in conversing with him on the things of eternity, and said she had no greater enjoyment than this holy intercourse.

The devotion to Calvary took root in Paris. Richelieu favored the work. Cardinal de la Rochefoucauld lent his aid. Louis XIV. authorized the consecration of the mount; and the Archbishop of Paris approved of the congregation of the Prêtres du Calvaire, similar to that in Béarn.

As soon as Charpentier arrived at Paris, in 1633, he became the object of the most flattering attentions on the part of the Port-Royalists, then under the direction of a priest from Bayonne—the famous Abbé St. Cyran, a man of an ardent, austere nature, who at that time seemed devoted to the revival of Christian and ecclesiastical discipline. Nothing must be inferred against the orthodoxy of Charpentier or La Bastide on account of their innocent relations with Port Royal. Not the least suspicion ever rested on their orthodoxy. Charpentier was occupied in good works rather than controversy. He died on Mount Valerian, with a reputation for extraordinary sanctity, December Augustinus was condemned by the Holy See. His body was found, without any trace of corruption, in 1802. His heart, at his own request, was sent to the church of Notre Dame de Bétharram, where it is enclosed in the wall on the epistle side of the chancel. The place is marked by a tablet of black marble, on which is the inscription: “Ici est le cœur de Hubert Charpentier, fondateur du Calvaire.”

The most distinguished chaplain of Bétharram in the eighteenth century was the Abbé Cassiet, for several years connected with the Canadian mission. It seemed strange in this distant mountain chapel of Béarn to come upon the traces of an old American missionary, and a natural curiosity was felt to know something of his history. We cannot forbear the pleasure of giving it pretty nearly as related by M. l’Abbé Sébie, the curé of Montaut, from details given by the nephews of M. Cassiet, now living at an advanced age in that place.

M. Pierre Cassiet was born at Montaut, in the Landes, in 1727. He made his preparatory studies at the seminary of Agen, and, feeling a strong desire to devote himself to the work of foreign missions, entered the Séminaire des Missions Etrangères at Paris, the superior of which was also from the diocese of Aire. He was at first destined for the mission of Cochin China, but a few days before the time fixed for his departure a missionary intended for Canada falling ill, it was proposed that the Abbé Cassiet should take his place. He consented and went to Canada, where he remained nine years, till the country was ceded to the English by the treaty of Versailles, February, 1763. At the time of his arrival the see of Quebec was vacant, and the diocese was governed by M. de Lalanne, likewise a native of Montaut, who, after sixteen years of useful labor, returned to France and died superior of the seminary at Dax, about the year 1775, beloved and honored by every one.[110]

In Canada M. Cassiet had charge of the parish of St. Louis, where the festivals of the church were celebrated with as much splendor as in Europe. He was successful in winning the confidence of his parishioners. He mingled among them, interested himself in their pursuits, taught the natives the culture of many useful vegetables and the raising of domestic animals. As there was regular commercial intercourse with Bordeaux and Bayonne, he was able to procure many serviceable things from his native land.

When the English took possession of Canada they called together all the French priests in the country, wishing, they said, to regulate their relations with the new authorities. Several of them had a presentiment of evil, among whom was Abbé Cassiet, who buried the sacred vessels in the ground, packed his trunk, and took a faithful servant with him. The treaty of Versailles stipulated the maintenance and protection of the Catholic religion, that the French priests should receive an annual salary from the English government, and be allowed to continue the exercise of their ministry under the direction of the bishop of Quebec. This treaty, according to the French accounts, was kept with Punic faith, though the English deny, or at least greatly extenuate, the atrocious coup de main so contrary to the law of nations, to say nothing of humanity and religion. One hundred and sixty-six French priests assembled at Quebec, according to orders. They were surrounded by troops, seized, and put on board a ship, which was instantly ordered to set sail for Europe. Nothing could exceed the inhumanity with which these martyr-priests were treated during the voyage by the brutal and fanatic Englishmen who had charge of them. Anchoring at Plymouth, England, they kept their prisoners on board for three months. They did not massacre them, but, with the most refined barbarism, subjected them to all the tortures of hunger and thirst. Their rations were reduced to an insufficient quantity to sustain life, and the distribution of water was delayed every day, till they were extenuated by the privation. Thirst killed more than hunger, and, when the ship at last touched at Morlaix in Brittany, of the one hundred and sixty-six priests who left Canada, only five remained, and these were barely alive. M. Cassiet was of the number. He had the sorrow of losing his faithful Canadian on the way, and was himself so low that he lost his senses and was speechless. He was taken charge of by a lady at Morlaix, who, for some days, only sustained his life under horrible sufferings by infusing a few drops of honey from time to time into his mouth.

His health re-established in a measure, he proceeded to Paris to report himself at the Missions Etrangères, where his condition excited general sympathy. The government, though too weak to demand satisfaction from the English, promised him a pension of six hundred livres a year. Thence he went to Rome, where he was received with the respect due to his sufferings for the faith.

After his return to Montaut, finding his pension not forthcoming, he resolved to go to Paris again to claim it. Accordingly he bought one of the small horses of the Landes for twenty crowns, and proceeded by short stages to the capital. He put up at the Missions Etrangères as usual, but was disappointed to find the court at Versailles, as well as the Abbé de Jarente, who had the portfolio of benefices and pensions, and formed part of the king’s household. M. Cassiet, undiscouraged, set out again the next morning on his way for Versailles. He little suspected the dramatic manner in which he was to present himself at the palace. Crossing a bridge, his horse, frightened at meeting a carriage, took the bit between his teeth and sprang forward like lightning. Our cavalier lost his hat, calotte, whip, and everything not secured to his person. In short, it was a repetition of the famous race of John Gilpin. In this way he was borne full tilt up to the palace gates. M. l’Abbé de Jarente, by some singular coincidence, happened to be there, and at once conceived a lively interest in the ecclesiastic who arrived at court in so queer a plight. M. Cassiet, as soon as his natural excitement was somewhat over, explained the cause of his unclerical appearance, and made known his object in coming. His pension was assured; and the Abbé de Jarente was so taken with such a feat of horsemanship that he offered a hundred crowns for the spirited steed. M. Cassiet, courteous and generous by nature, at once presented him to the minister, refusing any return.

Our Abbé was afterwards given a Las Prabendes, but he resigned it in favor of a young priest who subsequently became a Carthusian at Bordeaux. He was then appointed canon of St. Girons de Hagetmau, but he found the life too calm and monotonous after so varied a career, and about the year 1772 he offered his services to the community of the Prêtres du Calvaire at Bétharram. Here he so distinguished himself by his piety, zeal, and ability that he was soon appointed superior. The house became very prosperous under his rule. He put to account the practical knowledge of agriculture he had gained in Canada, laid out gardens, orchards, and vineyards on the banks of the Gave, and in the course of a few years increased the revenues five-fold. At the same time he infused a missionary spirit among the chaplains, and much of his own zeal in winning souls to Christ.

About this time the Abbé de Jarente, afterwards Bishop of Orléans, coming to the Pyrenees to breathe the mountain air and try the mineral waters, visited the Devout Chapel of Bétharram. He was delighted to find here the Abbé Cassiet, whom it was impossible to forget. No doubt the story of the horse came up, and the comical way in which he presented himself at Versailles. M. de Jarente offered M. Cassiet a benefice of six thousand livres a year without any obligation of residence or service. It was declined, though M. Cassiet no longer received his pension; but he was finally prevailed upon to accept a small benefice of one hundred and sixty livres a year in the Vicomté of Orthez. He was glad, he said, to have wherewith to shoe and clothe himself without being at any expense to his congregation. His brother presented Bétharram with ten thousand livres, on condition that the chaplains should give a mission every ten years at Montaut.

The Revolution brought mourning to this peaceful mountain chapel, and M. Cassiet, after trying in vain to propitiate the authorities, became for the second time a confessor of the faith and sought refuge in Spain. Somewhere in Biscay he met the Abbé St. Marc, a young curé from Grenade-sur-l’Adour, also in exile, and persuaded him to go to the Canadian mission, where he remained several years, but finally died in 1845, at the age of ninety-one, at Mont-de-Marsan, where his memory is still honored.

When the Catholic religion was re-established in France, the Abbé Cassiet returned to his homestead at Montaut, being then too old and infirm to undertake the restoration of Bétharram. Of the twelve priests of Calvary in 1793, only two were living, and they were advanced in years.

M. Cassiet’s last days were quietly spent in his native place. The bishop of Bayonne allowed him to say Mass in his own apartments, on account of his infirmities. He died in 1809, aged eighty-two years, surrounded with the love and veneration of all, and was buried at the foot of the cross in the public cemetery of Montaut.

The church of Notre Dame de Bétharram was saved from destruction at the time of the Revolution by the efforts of the mayor of the faithful town of Lestelle; but he was obliged to abandon the Calvary to its fury. The oratories were demolished, the statues broken to pieces, the paintings torn up, and the holy Way of the Cross rendered a Via Dolorosa indeed. When the sacred image of Christ on the Cross

The sacraments of the church were administered at Lestelle during this sad period by Père Joseph, a Franciscan friar, who sought in anything but “Franciscan weeds to pass disguised.” His various escapes from danger have become almost legendary. Wherever there was a person in danger of death or a child to be baptized, he suddenly made his appearance, and then as mysteriously disappeared—concealed, no doubt, by the good people of the village. Nine of the citizens purchased the hill of Bétharram, and some others the church. They were redeemed by the ecclesiastical authorities as soon as better days arrived, and a Petit Séminaire was established in the residence and hospice. Here was educated Bertrand Lawrence, the restorer of Notre Dame de Garaison, afterwards bishop of Tarbes. The devout chapel was now reopened for public devotion; the oratories on the mount were hastily restored and once more frequented, in spite of the rude scenes of the Passion painted by the Père Joseph.

In 1823 the Duchess of Angoulême, accompanied by the bishop of the diocese and a numerous procession of clergy, came here to make the Way of the Cross and pray for a blessing on the royal army under the duke in Spain. The duchess presented the church with a monstrance of rich workmanship. Four years after her sister-in-law, the Duchess of Berry, also came to Bétharram, and was received with the same demonstrations of joy.

The most noted chaplain of Bétharram in this century was a holy Basque priest of great austerity—the Abbé Garicoïts, a genuine Cantabrian, to whom his fellow-priests loved to apply the words of Sidonius Apollinaris:

He founded the Prêtres du Sacré Cœur, who continue to serve the church. He restored the Calvary to its ancient beauty, and repeopled its cells. While he was superior of the house the sanctuary was visited by the Abbé de Salinis, a distinguished Béarnais priest, who had inherited a special devotion to Notre Dame de Bétharram. He afterwards received the pallium, as archbishop of Auch, at her feet, and thenceforth came here regularly to make his annual retreat. It was he who sent Alexander Renoir, a Christian artist imbued with the love and spirit of the middle ages, to design the bas-reliefs that now adorn the Stations of the Cross. This sculptor spent five years at the work, after passing whole days on the sacred mount looking down on the enchanting valley of the Gave and meditating on the scenes he has so ably depicted in the first eight oratories. His figures are dignified, the faces full of character, and the draperies graceful. The Saviour has everywhere the same superhuman expression. In the Garden of Olives he is supported by an angel whose outspread wings surround him like a glory. It is evidently by his own will he suffers himself to be sustained. In the Flagellation his face wears a wonderful expression

The fourteen oratories of the Via Crucis are of various styles of architecture, and built, with an artistic eye to effect, on admirable points of view. Visible at a great distance, they seem to sanctify the whole valley. Some of them are surmounted with a dome, others with turrets. The royal chapel of St. Louis, built between two cells, has three Oriental domes that swell out on the tops of slender, minaret-like towers and are extremely striking from the railway. Twenty-eight stone steps—a Scala Santa—lead up to the sixth oratory, that of the Ecce Homo. The seventh looks like a castle with its crenellated towers. The eighth has a hexagonal tower flanked by four turrets. The ninth is of the Roman style.

The three crosses on the summit of the mount were cast at Paris and exhibited with success at the Exposition Universelle of 1867. In the Doric chapel beyond is a fine painting of the Descent from the Cross, saved from the revolutionists of ’93. It is intensely realistic. The Pietà of Carrara marble opposite is the work of M. Dumontet, of Bourges—an ex voto from the Marquis d’Angosse and his wife. Our Saviour’s form is of marvellous beauty. The fourteenth oratory is of the Doric style. There is a touching grief in the faces of the disciples bearing the dead body of Christ to the tomb. Mary stands in speechless sorrow. Magdalen is a prey to violent grief.

The top of the hill is a long plateau. The Crucifixion is at the east end, so that the Christ, according to ancient tradition, may face the west. At the left is the chapel of the Holy Sepulchre, where lies the holy Abbé Garicoïts, who died on the Festival of the Ascension, 1863.

At the west end of the esplanade, facing the Crucifixion, is the most imposing of all the chapels—that of the Resurrection. Two fine towers rise on each side of the gable on which stands the rapt form of our Saviour ascending to heaven, the work of M. Fabisch, the sculptor who executed the Virgin in the grotto at Lourdes.

Since the admirable restoration of the hill new devotion has sprung up among the people. Pilgrims to the grotto of Marie Immaculée, in the cliff of Massabielle, come to end their pilgrimage by weeping with Marie désolée on the solemn heights of Bétharram. On great festivals crowds may be seen coming from all the neighboring villages in festive array, with a joyful air, singing psalms on the way. They carry their shoes in their hands, but put them on on their arrival at church. The women carefully lift their dresses with characteristic eye to economy. During Holy Week thousands often ascend the mount, group after group, chanting old capuchons, looking like Maries at the Sepulchre.