Volume 26 — VOL. XXVI., No. 155.—FEBRUARY, 1878. (continued 4)

According to the former theory, the spiritual and corporeal parts, religion and the church, are after the model of human nature and the Incarnation, in vital, essential, and perpetual unity. The church is the way of salvation, the body of Christ vivified by his Spirit, the medium of union with God. Christianity is a sacramental religion. The episcopal order has been established 1317and consecrated by Jesus Christ to possess and transmit the plenitude of sacerdotal grace and power received from him as a gift; to preserve and transmit the faith, sacramental grace, the pure oblation of Christian worship, the discipline of the New Law in Catholic unity.

A Christianity of the first species, loosely organized in an imperfect society, could never have been transmuted into the second species. The specific Catholic Christianity, hierarchical, dogmatic, sacramental, liturgical, is the historical Christianity of the period of the first six œcumenical councils, and appears at the Council of Nice, in the person of the great Athanasius, in all parts of the earth, in all the saints and doctors, in all writings and all monuments, pointing backward to the past, the era of martyrdom, the period of foundation and of apostolic labor, as the origin and source of its doctrine, discipline, and worship. A transmutation of species in Christianity like that which the Protestant theory supposes is rationally impossible. There is the additional impossibility to be taken into account of such a great and universal change having occurred without leaving its records and traces in history. Christianity is an historical religion, and the historical Christianity is identical with Catholicity. It is the absolute and universal religion which has manifested itself as a work which only divine power could have produced, in the history of the past; in present history it is showing before our eyes its supernatural and divine character; and the fulfilment of its end in the final consummation and triumph of the kingdom of Christ will finish the last chapter of the Revelation of Christ in History.

1318

“THERE WAS NO ROOM FOR THEM IN THE INN.”

Foot-sore and weary, Mary tried

Some rest to seek, but was denied.

“There is no room,” the blind ones cried.

Meekly the Virgin turned away,

No voice entreating her to stay;

There was no room for God that day.

No room for her round whose tired feet

Angels are bowed in transport sweet,

The Mother of their God to greet.

No room for Him in whose small hand

The troubled sea and mighty land

Lie cradled like a grain of sand.

No room, O Babe divine! for thee

That Christmas night; and even we

Dare shut our hearts and turn the key.

In vain thy pleading baby cry

Strikes our deaf souls; we pass thee by,

Unsheltered ‘neath the wintry sky.

No room for God! O Christ! that we

Should bar our doors, nor ever see

Our Saviour waiting patiently.

Fling wide the doors! Dear Christ, turn back!

The ashes on my hearth lie black—

Of light and warmth a total lack.

How can I bid thee enter here

Amid the desolation drear

Of lukewarm love and craven fear?

What bleaker shelter can there be

Than my cold heart’s tepidity—

Chill, wind-tossed, as the winter sea?

Dear Lord, I shrink from thy pure eye,

No home to offer thee have I;

Yet in thy mercy pass not by.

1319

THE HOME-RULE CANDIDATE.

A STORY OF “NEW IRELAND.”

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE LITTLE CHAPEL AT MONAMULLIN,” “THE ROMANCE OF A PORTMANTEAU,” ETC., ETC.

CHAPTER I.

A NEW IRELANDER.

“I’m afraid your shooting party is spoiled,” said my mother, handing me a letter across the breakfast-table in the well-known hieroglyphics of my Uncle Jimmy.

“I should hope not,” I retorted, as the expedition in question had been looked forward to with considerable pleasure, on account of Harry Welstone, my old chum at the Catholic University, having announced his intention of “turning the head of his dromedary to the desert of Kilkenley,” the name of my ancestral seat, in the snug morning-room of which my mother and myself were discussing cream, tea, new-laid eggs, and crisp rashers.

My Uncle Jimmy’s note, addressed to my mother, his only sister, ran thus:

“United Service Club,

“London, Sept. 10.

“My dear Susey: My old and valued friend, Mr. Fribscombe Hawthorne, the member for Doodleshire, is most anxious to treat Ireland fairly on the Home-Rule question. He is well disposed towards the Green Isle, and the country cannot afford to lose an ally in this crisis. Freddy [myself], although no politician, manages his tenants exceedingly well, and I should like Hawthorne to learn that at least one Irish landlord can live upon his estate without fear of bullet or bludgeon. Hawthorne leaves to-night, and will stop at the Shelborne Hotel, Dublin. Tell Freddy to drop him a line, asking him to put up at Kilkenley, and to give him some of that Sneyd and Barton claret 1320which I love, not wisely but too well. My enemy is at work on my big toe, but I hope to be with you as usual at Christmas. The grouse were capital, fat and large, and I am on the look-out for partridge. Your affectionate brother,

“Jimmy L’Estrange.”

“P.S. I forgot to mention that Hawthorne’s daughter accompanies him; you had better enclose a note to her.

“J. L’E.”

“Confound it!” I cried, “it’s really too bad of Uncle Jimmy to saddle us with some dried-up statistician and his mummy daughter. You must write to him, madre mia, saying that I am at Derravanagh and beyond reach of post and wire.”

“If your uncle wasn’t very anxious about this he would never write so urgently; and don’t you think a little sacrifice is due to him?”

My mother was in the right. A moment’s reflection told me that my uncle’s letter was as forcible as an act of Parliament.

“Besides,” added my mother, with a cheery smile like a ray of sunshine, “this Mr. Hawthorne may be a sportsman and enjoy the shooting as keenly as Harry Welstone or yourself.”

My uncle was, or I should say is—for while I write he is enjoying a pipe in the company of Barney Corcoran, who stands to him in the same capacity as did Corporal Trim 1321to “My Uncle Toby”—as thorough a gentleman as ever saw the light of day. Simple, unassuming, loyal, generous, brave, he actually refused the recommendation for the Victoria Cross, in order that a fair-haired boy, whose very soul was set upon its possession, might receive the decoration. Pure-minded and good, he is at once, as Bayard, sans peur et sans reproche.

Jimmy entered the army in the year 1847, roving about with his regiment from clime to clime with a superb indifference as to change of scene, but with a fervid determination to remain with the gallant Thirty-third; and it was only when the Crimean war-cloud loomed overhead that he resolved upon quitting the old corps for one under orders for the East. One-half of the fighting Thirty-third volunteered with him, and the great redoubt at the Alma is steeped in the blood of many a gallant fellow who chose to follow the fortunes of Jimmy L’Estrange.

Jimmy was badly hit at Inkerman, and was sent home invalided, to be nursed by my mother. In a few months, however, he returned to the seat of war, only to be knocked over at the taking of the Redan, which he entered side by side with the dashing Tom Esmonde, where, in addition to a bayonet thrust in the chest, he was made the depositary of a bullet in the right leg. This bullet, clumsily extracted by an unskilful surgeon, constitutes the only decoration my uncle deigns to wear, and he carries it suspended from the steel chain attached to a huge gold watch formerly in possession of his great-grandfather, to whom King James presented it ere he rode from the disastrous battle-field of the Boyne.

1322Jimmy has eight thousand pounds lent out at four per cent., and lives like a nabob at his London club—reading the Army and Navy Gazette all the morning, gossiping with his former companions-in-arms during the afternoon, sunning himself in the park until dinner-time, and playing shilling whist up to his wonted hour for turning in for the night. He spends three months in every year at Kilkenley, during which, by a judicious course of open air, early hours, plain food, and ‘34 claret, he is enabled to undertake the London campaign with renewed vigor and vitality.

Visions of a crabbed, hard-headed, hard-fact, singularly uninteresting Englishman crossed my mind as I helplessly gazed at my uncle’s epistle—of mornings spent in debating the question of Home Rule versus Imperial legislation; of days engaged in quoting acts of Parliament and compiling statistics; of evenings behind the horror of a white choker, passed in dissecting and arranging these statistics, converting figures into facts, and facts into figures—this dreary drudgery instead of the delectable society of the bright, happy, and joyous Harry Welstone, of mornings on the hillside, of days in the turnip-fields looking for the identical partridge of which my uncle had made honorable mention in his letter, of evenings whirled through in chatting over old times and old associations. What cared I for Mr. Butt or Home Rule, the land question, fixity of tenure, tenant right, and such bother? If my tenants required time to pay the rent, they got it. If they required help toward fencing, draining, top-dressing, or thatching, they got it. If they were twelve months in arrear, they came to my mother to 1323plead for them; if over that period, they invariably waited for the annual visit of my Uncle Jimmy, in order to utilize him as ambassador; and my private opinion is, that upon one occasion, in order to keep up the credit of a family distantly related to his valet, Barney Corcoran, he paid the rent himself. I dare not hint at such a thing, but I feel thoroughly assured that the money came out of his own pocket. In the end, however, things generally came right, and delay in this case did not prove dangerous.

I read my uncle’s epistle twice, confounded him once, and contented myself by showering mild maledictions upon the heads of his English friends with a fervor that bore witness to my feelings of chagrin and disappointment.

The letters were duly written to Mr. and Miss Hawthorne and forwarded to the Shelborne.

“An’ yez are not goin’ to Derravanagh?” asked Ned Clancy, my game-keeper, in tones betraying the deepest dejection—“afther all me thrubble wud the birds, an’ the dogs blue-mowlded for a set. Begorra, I dunno what I’ll do wud the poor bastes. I tould thim we wor aff in the mornin’, an’ now be me song it’s at home they’ll have for to stay an’ set gruel.”

“I’m sorry to say I can’t go, Ned, as I expect an English gentleman and his daughter to visit us”; and, wishing to impress him with their importance, added: “He is a member of Parliament, and is coming over to study the Home-Rule question.”

My addendum failed to produce the desired effect.

“An’ much he’ll larn here,” observed Clancy with a toss of his head. “Av he axes the quollity for information, sorra an information 1324they have for to give him; an’ if he axes the poorer soart, they’ll only cod him, bad cess to him!”

Ned Clancy was even more fatally “sold” than I by the postponement of our visit to Derravanagh; for a certain blue-eyed colleen, the daughter of a “warm” farmer living close to the shooting-lodge, had succeeded in stirring tender emotions in the region lying beneath Mr. Clancy’s waistcoat on the left side, which, while productive of joy, were equally productive of pain, since the sunshine of her presence was unhappily counterbalanced by the very prolonged shadow of her absence. Forty miles lay between him and the object of his admiration; and although there are but seventy thousand four hundred yards in forty miles, still it is a long road for a gentleman to travel, unless he is pretty certain of his welcome, and as yet Ned Clancy had “never told his love.”

“Mebbe yer honor wud like for to show this English gintleman the counthry; an’ shure, in regard to scenery, there’s no batin’ Derrynacushla all the ways be Derravanagh. Sorra a finer sight nor the view from Ballyknocksheelin hill; it flogs Rooshia, Ashia, an’ Africa—so Misther Corcoran, yer uncle’s boy, tould me; an’ shure he ought for to know, be raisin’ av his havin’ travelled all the world, likewise Arabia.”

“I’m afraid it’s a little too far, Ned.”

“Far!” he contemptuously ejaculated—“a few dirty mile, an’ the horses atin’ their heds aff. Lily av the Valley darted through her stall this mornin’, an’ it tuk me an’ a cupple more for to hould Primrose.”

This was special pleading with a vengeance.

“Mebbe the gintleman wud take 1325a gun. Give him a lind av Miss Blake, sir. She goes aff soft an’ aisy, an’ wudn’t rub the dew aff th’ eyebrow av a grasshopper. Blur an’ ages, Masther Fred! for th’ honor av ould Ireland give him a shot. The birds is as thick as hayves, an’ he cudn’t miss thim no more nor a haystack; an’ shure,” he added, “anything he misses I’ll be on the luk out for, so betune us we’ll make it soft anyhow.”

“It’s not to be done, Ned; besides, Miss Hawthorne accompanies her father, and she possibly would not like to separate from him.”

“Bad cess to thim for wimmen!” he muttered, as he tossed the gun across his shoulders; “they spile everything. I wish they wor niver invinted.”

In the course of post two very polite letters reached us, one addressed to my mother from Miss Hawthorne, the other to myself from the M.P., accepting the invitation and stating that the writer would leave Dublin by the one o’clock train upon the following day, reaching Ballyvoreen station at 5.30.

The letters were excellently well written, both as regards style and caligraphy, especially that of the lady, whom I now felt assured must be a distinguished member of the Social Science or of the British Association.

“They will be here to-morrow, mother. How on earth are we to amuse them? We are in for it now, and must do our best to make their visit agreeable. I know little, and care less, about Home Rule, so I’ll hand Mr. Hawthorne over to Myles Casey, of Loftus Park, who opposed our present member. Father O’Dowd, too, will give this base, bloody, and brutal Saxon enough to think about for a dozen 1326sessions of Parliament. I’ll do my part like a man.”

“We must give a dinner-party,” said my mother with a weary sigh, visions of unpacking the family plate, which had not seen the light of day since my poor father’s death, floating across her mind’s eye. “I can drive Miss Hawthorne about the country and pay visits.”

“Don’t trouble yourself about her, mother. She’ll be able to amuse herself. Show her the old quarry at Rathnamon, and she can geologize until she’s black in the face. Or bring her to Carrignageena, and she’ll find ferns to bother her; and if she’s a dab at antiquities, the old church at Bohernacapple ought to put her on the treadmill for a week. There is one tombstone there that has bewildered Sir William Wilde and the entire Royal Irish Academy.”

“She may be interested in the Home-Rule question,” suggested my mother with a smile, adding: “And perhaps political economy is her forte.”

“In that case I’ll hand her over to Harry Welstone. He can talk Adam Smith, Martin Tupper, and Stuart Mill. He can enlighten her on the land question as well as A. M. Sullivan or Mitchel Henry; and he shall do it as sure as my name is Frederick Fitzgerald Ormonde. Besides, he can imitate Gladstone, Bright, Toole, Mathews, and Buckstone. He’s just the sort of fellow to encounter this antediluvian female, and, if such a thing were within the realms of possibility, metamorphose her.”

Visitors to a country house, should the entertainers be not in the habit of receiving company, are about the severest penances that can by any possibility be inflicted. Everything requires to be turned topsy-turvy 1327for them—beds, bedrooms, furniture, carpets, “fixins’” of every description. The cellar must be overhauled and confidential conferences held with the cook. The “trap” used for knocking about the roads and attending markets and fairs must be shoved aside, and the family coach put into formidable requisition. The horses must be clipped, while the harness is found to be defective and a new whip an absolute necessity. The very door-mats suggest renovation.

As regards Harry Welstone, his room and his tub were always ready. I would have felt no hesitation in quartering him on the house-top, and the only preparation I went in for with reference to his visit was a scrupulous overhauling of the billiard-table. Having no person to practise with except Martin Heaviside of the Grove, or Captain O’Reilly of the Connaught Rangers when home on leave, the cushions became more like bags of sand than those springy, elastic walls from which the pale white or the blushing red ball bounds gaily towards the coquettish pocket or the artfully-arranged collision of the carrom. With the aid of Ned Clancy—who, in addition to being game-keeper, was a sort of Jack-of-all-trades—and the usual formulæ, I succeeded in imparting the necessary tone to the table, and was satisfied that Harry would scarcely fail to appreciate the utility of the preparations.

I felt no anxiety whatever to “show off” to the English member of Parliament, while I honestly confess to a burning desire to appear the “correct thing” in the eyes of my old college chum; and while I ordered a homely vehicle called the shandradan—half pilentum, 1328half brougham, very old, very rickety, and very seedy—to meet Mr. and Miss Hawthorne upon the following day, I turned out my own dog-cart, built by Bates, of Gorey—stained ash, brass-boxed wheels, brass-mounted harness, ‘possum rug, with Lily of the Valley and Primrose tandem—in order to bowl Harry Welstone from Ballyvoreen station to the lodge gate, nine miles, in the forty minutes.

In accordance with preconcerted arrangement, I met Harry, hugged him, whacked him on the back, refreshed him from my flask, rolled him in the ‘possum rug as though the mercury were in the tens below zero, and almost yelled with pleasure the entire way back.

Is any meeting equal to the meeting of old school-fellows?

Ay de mi! no.

He had grown much stouter and much handsomer. His eyes were more romantically dark, and his black moustache, which I recollected so well in its struggling tooth-brush infancy, was now pointed after the fashion of the third Napoleon.

After he had received a cordial welcome from my mother I dragged him up to his room, and there we sat talking over Jim Cooper, that went to the diggings, and Bobby Thyne, now a leader at the Indian bar, and Tom O’Brien, who was a Jesuit, and Phil Dempsey, whose last speech on circuit had elicited the warm encomiums of Mr. Justice Fitzgerald; of the Corbet girls, and the Walshs’ picnic at the Dargle, when Harry fell overhead into the river in a chivalrous endeavor to pluck a maiden-hair fern for Miss Walsh, and a host of similar delightful souvenirs, until the dinner-bell rang.

“Harry, my old bird, what will 1329you dip your beak into—claret or the ding-dong?”

“Well, I stand by the solid liquor, Fred, but the pace is too heavy.”

Over our punch we resumed the conversation on the olden, golden time. Ah! how weary, as we approach the end, to look back at the milestones we have passed on our journey. Why did we tarry here, why not have rested there, why not have halted for good and aye? With us it was couleur de rose. We had no shadows to sadden memory. Our gossip was of our college days, when life was on the spring and every nerve braced for the forthcoming struggle. We talked late into the night, disregarding dove-like messages from the ark announcing coffee.

The next day Harry went on a ferreting expedition with Ned Clancy, and my mother was too deeply immersed in household affairs to be enabled to take my place and go to meet our expected guests; so, with feelings of no very amiable description, I threw myself, all untidy and ill-dressed as I was, into the shandradan, and jingled the nine miles to Ballyvoreen behind as sorry a pair of nags as ever ploughed a nine-acre field.

I had to wait at the station, as of course the train was five-and-twenty minutes late, and I was seriously hoping that some untoward accident had occurred which would retard its progress for four-and-twenty hours at the very least, when it came creaking and groaning in. Just as I had anticipated, a tall, grim, gaunt, elderly gentleman alighted, followed by a tall, grim, gaunt, elderly young lady, with a nose as sharp as a shilling razor, wearing her hair in wiry curls, and dragging by a long 1330blue ribbon a plunging, howling, ill-visaged pug. The sight of the dog was somewhat of a relief to me, as I foresaw the miserable existence he was likely to lead with my two Skye terriers—a counterpart of the torture I should be compelled to endure with his master and mistress.

“Mr. Hawthorne, I presume,” bowing and lifting my hat.

He bowed stiffly.

I repeated the question, fearing, perhaps, that he had not heard me.

“You are mistaken, sir,” in freezing tones. “I am Lord Mulligatawney.”

“I was mistaken.”

Apologizing for the error, I looked up the line and perceived in the distance—for the train was a long one—a well-dressed, dapper little man engaged in lugging a valise from beneath the seat of a first-class carriage. “This must be my guest,” thought I, advancing, and as I reached the carriage the portmanteau came to earth with a chuck that nearly precipitated its proprietor into an adjacent hedge. Following the “leathern conveniency,” and with a spring graceful as that of a gazelle, a young girl alighted from the compartment. She was small but exquisitely proportioned. Her hair, pure gold, was wound round the back of her head in ponderous plaits. Her eyes were of that blue which in certain lights cries “check” unto the violet. Her nose was straight and delicately shaped, but not in the least classical. Her mouth was large, full, and generous, and adorned with flashing white teeth, somewhat irregular, it is true, but in their irregularity lay a special charm all their own. She was attired in a shepherd’s plaid silk travelling dress, a Die Vernon hat with a sweeping 1331blue feather almost caressing her left shoulder, and her dainty little hands were encased in black kid gauntleted gloves. Struck by her singular grace and beauty, I remained staring at her—staring like a schoolboy at a waxen effigy.

“You are Mr. Ormonde,” she said laughingly, and advancing towards me.

“You are Miss Hawthorne,” I stammered.

“I am, and papa, as usual, is fussing about our luggage—impedimenta you scholars call it nowadays. I knew you from your photograph. It is so kind of you to come and meet us.” She put out her hand as she said this in a winning, confiding way that was fraught with captivation. I bowed over the tips of her fingers in respectful reverence, scarcely daring to touch her hand.

“May I ask where you saw my photograph?” I asked, inwardly hoping she had come across the one taken for the Rathaldron hunt, in which I figured in full field toggery, my right hand caressing the shoulder of Galloping Bess, my favorite hunter.

“In your uncle’s album,” she replied.

Of course it was that photograph, done while at the university, with the lackadaisical expression around the eyes and a general limpness about the form, while my garments bore the appearance of having been constructed for the celebrated Irish giant. If I had had the artist in my hands at that particular moment, it is possible that I might have taken his photograph with something akin to a vengeance.

“Papa, this is mine host.” And she curtsied towards me after the fashion of the ladies at the Court of St. James, when hoops were 1332worn at the hips and patches and powder held their parti-colored sway. I grasped the little man by the hand, telling him fervently that his acquaintance was the greatest favor ever bestowed upon me by my uncle, that my house was his home, together with several similar expressions of intense good-will and of the liveliest satisfaction. How I inwardly anathematized my seedy coat, my unkempt beard, and above all the jingling shandradan with its villanous pair of garrons standing at the exit gate! I believe I offered Miss Hawthorne my arm to lead her to the vehicle in question, calling loudly to Peter O’Brien, who acted in the duplicate capacity of coachman and butler. Finding that my servant failed to respond to the summons, I flung open the door of the carriage, and was about to hand her into it, when, to my utter shame, misery, and mortification, I beheld my missing retainer rolled up like a ball in the space between the seats, fast asleep, and snoring like a fog-horn. In a blaze of indignation I caught him by the coat-collar, with the intention of giving him a shake that would rattle him into an eel-like liveliness; but while in the act of inserting my fingers deftly around the collar, so as to afford me the grip necessary to the effectual carrying out of my intention, he suddenly awoke from his slumbers, and, upon perceiving the condition of affairs, with the howl of a startled wolf, plunged upwards with such overwhelming force as to cause me to lose my hold, to lurch against the step of the carriage, carrom off the open door, and lastly, O agony! O shame! to measure my full length in the dusty roadway, whilst a shout of laughter from porters, passengers, and by-standers, 1333in which I could detect the silvery notes of Miss Hawthorne, greeted my tingling ears. I sprang to my feet, full of the intention of throttling the misguided rascal, but was restrained, bon gré mal gré, on discovering him upon his knees in the centre of a sympathizing audience, whom he was addressing with astonishing volubility ere I could possibly interpose.

“O mother o’ Moses! I was overkem wud sleep; an’ shure I’m not for to blame afther all, for never a sight o’ me bed I seen last night till daylight this blessed mornin’. But shure I’d sit up for a month like a Banshee for his honor, av it divarted him. Let me aff this wanst, Masther Fred, an’ I’ll carry ye up to bed every night in—”

Deeming it advisable to stop this dangerous harangue as speedily as possible, as I found myself quietly dropping from out of the frying-pan into the fire, and as, in his anxiety to make out a good case for himself, the rascal was using me as a scapegoat, I sternly bade him look to his horses.

Finding himself once more approaching the sunshine of favor, he hastily scrambled to his feet, and, before I could intercept his movement, had commenced to rub me down as if I were one of the quadrupeds under his especial care, accompanying each vigorous rub with that purring sound wherein the groom proper delights to indulge.

“Bad cess to it for dirt! it ‘ill never come out,” he began, as, with a slap that brought tears to my eyes, he endeavored to remove the dust from the back of my coat.

“Silence, sir! Go to your box!” I shouted, as I handed Miss Hawthorne into the shandradan, placing her father beside her, and my 1334miserable, humiliated self opposite directly beneath the perilous influence of her violet eyes.

“I trust, Miss Hawthorne,” I blurted, as we started for Kilkenley, “that you are not too deeply influenced by first impressions?”

“Will you permit me to be very Irish, and answer your question by putting another? Are you?”

Despite my late discomfiture, my unkempt hair, my gloveless hands, and general seediness, I had sufficient grace within me to gaze for one brief second into her lovely eyes until red as a rose was she, and reply with a well-toned emphasis: “Most decidedly.”

I then, in a disjointed and desultory way, endeavored to explain why so shaky a vehicle had been sent to the station; why Peter O’Brien’s hat was so brown and bore such traces of snail-creeping from brim to crown; why I had turned out so shabbily; why the horses were so slow—in a word, it was the old story of qui s’excuse s’accuse, and my explanations, such as they were, will ever remain a matter of the profoundest mystery to myself, as I never by any possibility could recall their tenor to my memory.

I believe that during the drive Mr. Hawthorne spoke a good deal of my uncle, of London, Parliament, late hours, divisions, of the Home-Rule question, and upon several other equally agreeable and interesting topics, all of which seemed to afford the most exquisite delight to Peter O’Brien, who sat perched sideways upon the box, with one eye approvingly upon the “mimber” and the other skewise upon the road; but as for me, I was so lost in contemplating the charms of my vis-à-vis that the eloquence of the member for Doodleshire 1335was as completely wasted as if he were addressing Mr. Speaker himself.

Miss Hawthorne only spoke upon two occasions—once to comment upon the beauty of the foliage at Ballyknockscroggery, the name amusing her immensely, and which she endeavored to repeat with a childlike glee; and once to ask about my mother—but the sounds were as music, and my ears quaffed the delicious, dreamy draught with greedy avidity. How those nine miles passed I never knew; they seemed but so many yards.

Peter kept “a trot for the avenue,” and brought us to a standstill with a jerk that spoke volumes in favor of the anxiety of the screws for a respite from their labors. I handed the young and lovely girl to my mother, who stood upon the steps awaiting our approach, and, having escorted Mr. Hawthorne to his room, retired to my own in a whirlwind of new and pleasing emotion—ay, new and pleasing indeed!

I ate no dinner. What cared I for food? Mabel Hawthorne’s presence enthralled me with an undefinable ecstasy. Every gesture, every movement seemed fraught with a new-born grace, while her every word filled my very being as with melody. I envied my mother that she talked so much to her; I envied Harry Welstone for looking so confoundedly handsome and because he sat opposite to her; I envied Peter when she addressed even a “yes” or “no” to him; I envied her father, who called her “Mabel” and “darling.” Heigh-ho! How I hated the approach of that fatal moment when the conventionalities demanded the withdrawal of the ladies—a cruel and 1336barbarous custom, and I said so. She brushed past me as I held the door open, her eyes lifting themselves like violets from beneath the leafy lashes; and when she had glided away on my mother’s arm, I felt that the light had ceased to live in the apartment. I longed for a cigar in the stillness of the autumn night, surrounded by the lordly gloom of nature, and yearned for the priceless abandon of my own musings. But, as in duty bound, I descended to the realities and the ‘34 claret.

“A good wine, sir,” exclaimed Mr. Hawthorne, smacking his lips and cunningly holding his glass between the lamp and his left eye; the right being carefully closed. “A grand wine, sir. A comet vintage, sir. Mr. Speaker has no wine like this; and the Speaker of the House of Commons has the best cellar in England, sir.”

Mr. Hawthorne spoke solemnly. His sentences seemed carefully weighed, and were delivered with an unctuousness that bespoke considerable satisfaction with himself. He addressed me as if I were the Speaker of the House of Commons, and as though he were desirous of catching my eye. Some persons hold you with their eye. It’s not pleasant. He was one of this class.

“It’s a ‘34, sir; you are quite correct. My poor father was very particular about his cellar. I have too much of it; you must permit me to send you a dozen at Christmas.” What would I not give her father?

“On the condition that you will come and help me to drink it, sir.”

Need I say how profuse were my thanks? This was a chance—to see her in her own home, too.

“We live in the Regent’s Park, York Terrace. Our windows command 1337a very pleasing prospect. It’s a nice walk for me to the House, and from my roof I can tell by the electric light in the clock tower whether the House is sitting or not. This is of immense importance, as to lose a division very often means to lose a seat—ha! ha! ha!”

I must be forgiven if I joined in this melancholy merriment.

“Full well I laughed, with counterfeited glee,

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he.”

I kicked Harry Welstone beneath the table as a signal to join in, but he maintained a grim, stolid silence. He told me subsequently that it wasn’t to be done at any price.

“You may not possibly have heard Mr. Disraeli’s last, gentlemen,” said Mr. Hawthorne, placing his left hand inside his waistcoat and flourishing the right in my direction. “It’s—ha! ha!—so very like Dizzy that—ha! ha!—I cannot help repeating it.” Here he laughed “consumedly” for fully a minute.

The reader is possibly acquainted with some one man who cozens time by inward chuckles at his own conceits. It is a melancholy ordeal to have to endure this individual, to reflect back his dulness, and to return smile for smile. All bores are terrors, but the worst class of bore is the political; he is the embodiment, the concentrated essence, the amalgam and epitome of bores. He mounts his dreary Rosinante, and jogs along, taking acts of Parliament for milestones and the dullest utterances in the lives of eminent men as his halting-places, quoting long-winded, meaningless speeches as epigrams, and paralyzing his auditory with wooden extracts from a blue-book of exploded theories. His pertinacity is as inexhaustible as it is undaunted; he 1338is free from the faintest suspicion of self-distrust; he is a bore within a bore. Of course, as the father of Mabel, Mr. Hawthorne interested me, and I listened with a reverence that begat the reputation of a shrewd, sensible fellow—an encomium never heretofore passed upon me under any circumstance whatsoever.

“The Right Honorable the senior member for the city of Dublin,” commenced Mr. Hawthorne, after his merriment had cooled off a little, “is—ha! ha!—a Mr. Jonathan Pim, Quaker, and a laborious statistician. The House likes a statistician on the budget or in committee, but we will not have him in debate—no, gentlemen, we will not tolerate him in debate. A question arose in which I had fruitlessly endeavored to catch the Speaker’s eye—the Speaker is, by the bye, no particular friend of mine, as I once overruled his decision on a point of order; consequently, I seldom get an opportunity of speaking, and am compelled to write to the Times. Well, gentlemen, as I was observing, a question came up in which the Right Honorable the senior member for the city of Dublin felt himself interested, and he made a very creditable speech, bristling with figures—quite a surprise to some of us; but it bored us, gentlemen, and the House will not tolerate a bore.”

Harry trod upon my toe; my boots were tight—I involuntarily groaned.

“I perceive that you agree with me,” said the M.P.; “the affliction is terrible.”

“Awful!” said Harry, peeling a plum.

“Well, gentlemen, the Right Honorable gentleman, the senior member for the city of Dublin, had—ha! ha!—just concluded his speech, 1339when Mr. Disraeli, who sat upon the Opposition benches, said to the honorable member for Shrewsbury, who sat behind him, and placing his eyeglass up so”—suiting the action to the word—

“‘Who is this person?’

“‘Mr. Pim, sir, the senior member for the city of Dublin,’ responded the honorable member for Shrewsbury.

“‘Oh! indeed. Dublin used to send us a gentleman and a blackguard; this creature is neither.’”

This was not quite so bad, and we joined the honorable member for Doodleshire in his mirth, which continued long after our responsive haw-haws had become things of the past.

Mr. Hawthorne, being thus encouraged, was good enough to enliven us with a prolonged description of his original Parliamentary yearnings, his first and unsuccessful contest, and his subsequent triumphant victory—a victory which we were led to believe was unparalleled in the annals of electioneering struggles, and one that caused a thrill of dismay all along the entire line of the great conservative party. We were solemnly inducted into the forms of the House, from the entrance of a newly-fledged member to his maiden speech. We were initiated into the mysteries of the “Opposition benches,” the “gangway,” the “table,” the “bar,” the duties of the “whip” and the “tellers,” the modus operandi as regards notices of motion and divisions, the striking of committees, and the rules of Parliament generally, until we were surfeited ad nauseam. These pleasing preliminaries having been satisfactorily gone through, Mr. Hawthorne very obligingly proceeded to give us brief biographical sketches of Gladstone, 1340Bright, Disraeli, Northcote, Hartington, and other leading men of that august assembly, dilating upon the peculiarities in their style and the mistakes in their several Parliamentary careers, until I wished him—in the drawing-room. The windows were open, and across the sensuous night-glow came sweet, soothing strains from the piano, now in low, wailing cadences soft and sorrow-laden as the cry of the Banshee, now in the dashing brilliancy, the élan of those chromatic fireworks which none but the most skilled pyrotechnist dare handle save à deux mains.

“Miss Hawthorne is at the piano,” I ventured, in the earnest hope that her father, in the pride of parental fondness, might suggest an adjournment.

“Yes, yes,” coolly and imperturbably.

“She plays divinely.”

“Rubinstein, who gave her lessons at I’m ashamed to say how much per lesson, said she was his best amateur pupil. But, as I was observing, Mr. Gladstone pronounces some words very strangely; for instance, issue he always pronounces ‘issew,’ and Mr. Bright invariably says ‘can’t’ for ‘cawnt.’”

After a dissertation of about half an hour’s duration upon the Marquis of Hartington’s lisp, the unwieldy oratory of Ward Hunt, Mr. Roebuck’s ‘no,’ and Mr. Whalley’s ‘heaw, heaw,’ I again hinted at an adjournment, and on this occasion with a view to a general move, suggested the billiard-room.

“Ah! no, my dear sir, we overworked members of the legislature value too much the delightful tranquillity of our claret to ‘rush things,’ as they say in America. We must make hay while the sun shines. How many nights during the coming 1341session shall I not have to snap at my food with the ting! ting! of the division-bell ringing in my ear! How often have I just raised my soup to my lips, when ting! ting! and away into the House or to the division-lobby, and back to find it cold. Fish!—ting! ting!” playfully tapping a wine-glass with his dessert-knife by way of illustration. “Entrée!—ting! ting! And as for wine, I have been compelled, ay, six nights out of the seven, to gulp it, gentlemen. Fancy gulping claret as a navvy tosses off a quart of ale. Festina lente, young gentlemen. Make haste slowly with your dinner and your post-prandial wine; the pace of the tortoise is the winning, and assuredly the most pleasant, one.”

Harry Welstone, who had been sipping his claret in dogged silence, suddenly started from his chair, and exclaiming, “By Jove! she’s playing Les Baisers d’Amour; excuse me, Fred,” hurriedly quitted the apartment, leaving me in a condition of the deepest dejection, and writhing under the dreary torture of the Parliamentary souvenirs of the member for Doodleshire.

“I—ha! ha!—call to mind another mot of Mr. Disraeli’s; not at all a bad one, either,” continued the M.P., deliberately attacking a fresh decanter of claret—attacking it in that steady, methodical way which indicated a determination to reduce it by slow degrees to the last extremity. “Dizzy says a thing, sir, in a quaint, dry way peculiarly his own—Multum in parvo I call it—and he looks so demure, seated upon the Opposition bench in his short black velvet coat, and caressing his daintily-booted left foot upon his right knee. One night during the last session a very particular friend of mine, Sir Brisbane Bullflier, the 1342junior member for Hants, happened to ask him what he thought of Mr. Gladstone. Dizzy turned his gaze toward the government benches, and coolly surveying the prime minister, who was parrying an adroit question, said, as he calmly surveyed him:

“‘Mr. Gladstone is a man without a single redeeming vice.’”

My heart was in the drawing-room, where I now imagined Harry Welstone leaning with his elbows upon the piano and his chin upon his hands (his favorite position when my mother played for him), gazing at Mabel—I had commenced to think of her by this gracious and winsome name—uttering some of his daring facetiæ, and being rewarded by a glance from those bewildering violet eyes, while I, bound in the iron fetters of a vile conventionalism, was compelled to listen to “I thus addressed the Speaker: ‘Mr. Speaker, sir,’” or, “I called for a division, sir, and insisted upon explaining to the House my motives for adopting this somewhat daring and untoward course,” and “Would you believe it, sir, the Times never noticed my speech upon the church disestablishment; it is positively amusing—ha! ha! ha!”; his face bore no traces of the amusement in question—“and that contemptible rag, the Daily Telegraph, merely mentioned that the honorable member for Doodleshire said a few words which were inaudible—this, sir, to a speech that cost me three weeks in the preparation and three hours in the delivery.” This sort of thing under ordinary circumstances, would have been dry and prosy enough, but under the special conditions of the case it became simply unbearable.

I suggested cigars; he didn’t smoke. A Bras Mouton instead 1343of Château Lafitte; he preferred the existing vintage. Coffee I dared not venture upon, and I relinquished the hopeless struggle with a weary sigh. He was there for the evening, and in that spot he would remain until the contents of the decanter had disappeared.

“Do you take an active part in politics, Mr. Ormonde?” he asked after a prolonged silence, during which I had the dismal satisfaction of hearing the strains of a valse brillante, accompanied by an occasional ripple of laughter, wafted in through the windows.

“None whatever.”

“No?” uttered in a tone almost of dismay.

“No, sir. Our country is in the hands of an Orange clique, who will not allow a Catholic to hold a position of any consequence whatever. The representation is, as a matter of course, in their hands, and the family of De Ruthven have supplied the members since the sacking of Drogheda under Cromwell, and will continue so to do, although, perhaps, under the recent Ballot Act some outsider may get a chance, There are but two Catholics in the grand panel. I am one of them, and was never even summoned to attend until I threatened to horsewhip the high sheriff. My colleague is what we call in this country a ‘Cawtholic’—that is, one who invariably votes with the Orange party, and who would drink the great, glorious, pious, and immortal King William in preference to the health of Pius the Ninth.”

“You have done away with that absurd toast,” said Mr. Hawthorne.

“Not at all, sir; it is given at every dinner-party in the country, and it was once given in this very room.”

“In this room? Why, I thought 1344you Ormondes were always out-and-out papists.”

“And so we have been, and so we are. I’ll tell you how it happened. My father—God be merciful to him!—was always noted for his hospitality, and one evening, after a hard run with the Bohernabreena hounds, he invited the hunt, at least as many as were in at the death, home to dinner, sending a boy across the bog with the news to my mother.”

“‘I haven’t much to offer you to eat, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘but we’ll make it up in the liquor.’

“About twenty gentlemen rode over here, and, after having dined in a scratch sort of way, they plunged on the claret—this identical wine.”

“It is too good for fox-hunters,” observed my guest. “Such liquid nectar is for brain-workers like me.”

“After a very joyous carouse one of the party, called ‘Orange Dick,’ a Mr. Templeton, of Ashbrooke Hall, about ten miles from this, a deputy lieutenant and J.P., stood up and asked permission to propose a toast. The permission was freely accorded by my father, and full bumpers were called for. When the glasses were all filled and the company on their feet, Mr. Templeton gave the memory of the great, glorious, pious, and immortal King William, which was received with three times three, my father, to the astonishment of one or two, joining in.

“‘Now, gentlemen,’ said my father, ‘I drank your toast; you’ll drink mine. Fill your glasses.’

“They required but little inducement to do as he bade, and in an instant were in readiness.

“‘To your feet, gentlemen.’

“This order having been complied with—for it was given as such, 1345and not as a request—my father shouted in a voice of thunder:

“‘Here’s to the sorrel nag that broke King William’s neck.’”

Mr. Hawthorne was about to enter into the question of the Hanoverian succession, and had already briefly sketched the career of the Prince of Orange, when Peter entered, and, approaching me as though he were treading upon eggs, whispered in a voice which betrayed a vigorous razzia upon the decanter, and sufficiently loud to make itself distinctly overheard:

“The sooner the punch is riz the betther, sir; the kittle’s gettin’ cowld an’ the mould fours is runnin’ low.”

Inwardly cursing the fellow’s garrulity, I proposed to my guest that we should join the ladies.

“Begorra, yez may save yourselves the thrubble, gintlemin, for it’s in their beds th’ are”; here he lowered his voice into a whisper solely addressed to my ear: “The young leddy axed me confidintial: ‘When will he be comin’ to the dhrawin’-room?’ sez she.

“‘Not till he’s had his five,’ sez I.

“‘What five?’ sez she.

“‘Tumblers av punch, miss!’ sez I. “An’ didn’t I do well, Masther 1346Fred, for to keep up the credit av’ the family?”

My hands clenched involuntarily, preparatory to making themselves acquainted with the body of my blundering retainer, when Mr. Hawthorne, upon whom the fatigue of the journey, and perhaps his Parliamentary reminiscences, had produced a somniferous effect, suggested following the good example of the ladies—a proposition which I joyfully acceded to. I assisted him to his bed-chamber, where, after listening to a very lengthened and no doubt excessively profound disquisition upon a proposed amendment in the Irish Poor-Law Act, I left him to “nature’s sweet restorer,” and, gruffly refusing to partake of a night-cap with Harry Welstone, lighted a cigar and went out into the night.

What a revolution had taken place in my existence within a few hours! Behind yonder lighted casement a young girl was preparing for rest, the very thoughts of whom, but a short while back, were a source of mortification and chagrin, and now—love and light and joy beckoned me towards her, drawing me to her by a chain of roses.

TO BE CONTINUED.

1347

A CHILD-BEGGAR.

Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see

How he persists to knock and wait for thee!

—Lope de Vega, Longfellow’s Translation.

There knocketh at thy door to-night

A tender little hand.

Without the portal, waiting thee,

Two feet, way-weary, stand.

So oft to-night that hand hath knocked,

So often been denied;

O wavering soul! ope thou thy house,

Bid this child-beggar bide.

Without the bitter moonlight casts

Cold glitter on the snow;

With icy fingers ‘mid the boughs

The wind wakes sounds of woe;

Unclouded is the light of stars

Filling the frosty blue;

Yet, heedless of the winter chill,

A childish voice doth sue:

“Open, dear love, and let me in,

The world without is cold;

In the warm shelter of thy heart

I pray thee me enfold.

Weary I wander forth to-night,

I knock at many a door,

I call, but seems my voice too weak

To rise the bleak wind o’er.

“A little exile here I stand,

Begging an easy grace—

Beside thy hearth this biting night

A little resting-place.”

O patient voice! O weary feet!

O soul! be thou beguiled,

Thy bolts undo, thy bars let fly,

Keep Love no more exiled.

’Tis Love that knocks and begs for love

In that soft, childish tone,

Who pleads a beggar at thy gate,

Whose right is thy heart’s throne.

1348Open, dear heart, and do not fear;

With him can enter in

Not any ill—nay, from his hand

Thou shalt all blessing win.

Though heaped thy house with treasure rare

Ah! do not Love deny;

He may not seek thee any more,

Scorning to-night his cry.

And do not fear that thou shalt find

A little rosy elf

With laughing eyes that look through tears

That pity but himself.

No fretful, pouting lips are his

Who waiteth at thy gate;

No querulous tone shall dim his voice

Who knocks so long and late;

His are no folded rainbow wings

Wherewith he may ensure

His safe retreat when his weak faith

No longer shall endure.

He bears no burden of barbed shafts;

A cross his quiver is,

And of a crown of thorns his brow

Beareth the cruelties;

His feet are pierced with wounds whose stain

Lies on the moonlit snow,

And in his tender baby hands

Twin blood-red roses blow.

Beneath the cross and crowning thorn

Infinite peace doth shine.

Ah! open quick. O doubting heart!

Let in this Love Divine.

Have thou no fear of heavy cross—

His shoulders bear its weight;

The thorny wreath with sharp, strong touch

Shall joy undreamed create.

These infant lips shall bless thy tears,

This tender voice give peace;

The hand that begs thy grace to-night

Shall sign thy woe’s release.

He asks so little, gives so much,

And sigheth to give more

Who, patient in the wintry world,

Stands knocking at thy door.

1349Hasten, my soul, let Him not wait;

Fling thy heart’s portal wide;

Bid thou this weary little Child

Fore’er with thee abide.

Kneel thou a beggar at his feet

Who begs to-night of thee;

No alteration knows this Love

Born of eternity.

THE ISLES OF LÉRINS.

There like a jewel in the Midland Sea

Far off discerned, the isle of Lérins hangs

Upon the coast of Provence, no fit haunt,

As from its beauty might at first appear,

For summer revel or a moonlit masque,

But where in studious cloister Vincent lived

And taught, and, in the simple panoply

Of Catholic tradition armed, struck down

The heretics.

—Faber.

1350The town of Cannes, to which so many English and Americans resort on account of its delicious climate, its healing air, and the lovely shores where grow the olive and the vine, has, too, its balmy atmosphere for the soul. All the neighboring heights are clothed with the mystic lore of mediæval saint and chapel, the waves of the azure sea still seem to move to the holy impulses that once swept the air, and across the beautiful bay are two fair isles at the entrance—St. Marguerite, associated in most persons’ minds with the prison in which was confined the mysterious Man of the Iron Mask, but once was more happily peopled with

“Virgins good

Who gave their days to heaven”;

and St. Honorat, the Happy Isle (beata illa insula), as it was once called, famous for its ancient monastery, that played so glorious a rôle in the religious history of Gaul. 1351These are the isles of Lérins, two gems of that collar of pearls thrown by God around the Mediterranean Sea, to quote St. Ambrose, where once those who would escape from the perilous charms of the world found refuge.

The island of St. Honorat is now occupied by the Cistercians, and early one morning, soon after our arrival at Cannes, we went in search of the boat they send to the mainland every day for their necessary supplies. We were so fortunate as to find on board a young monk of great intelligence, who was well versed in all the traditions of Lérins and the surrounding region. He kindly volunteered to become our guide, and proved an invaluable one. The islands are between two and three miles distant, and we were about an hour in crossing. A sail on those blue waters, in sight of their shores of radiant beauty, is always a delight, but especially so on a lovely day such as we had 1352chosen, in the middle of October, with just air enough—and what soft air it was!—to ripple the sea and make it give out a thousand flashes from the tiny waves. We first came to St. Marguerite, which is the largest of the islands. It is seven kilometres in circumference, oval in shape, and almost entirely covered with maritime pines. It looks indeed like a gem, this emerald isle rising out of the sea of dazzling gold. It is said to have once borne the name of Léro, from some person of ancient times whose prowess excited the admiration of his contemporaries, and the sister isle took the diminutive of this name—Lérina. St. Honorat is said to have overthrown the temple of the deified Léro, and perhaps built the church early erected here in honor of the illustrious virgin martyr of Antioch. An old legend says when he retired to the neighboring isle his sister Margaret came here to live, and gathered around her a community of pious maidens, to whom the sea, as it were, offered its mystic veil. As Lérina was interdicted to women, she begged St. Honorat to visit her frequently, and complained that her wish was so seldom gratified. On the other hand, the saint feared that he held converse with his sister too often, and thought such visits disturbed his recollection in prayer. At length he told her he should restrict his visits to a periodical one, and selected the time when the cherry-trees should be in bloom—meaning, of course, once a year. Margaret wept and entreated, but nothing could change his resolution. Then she declared God would be less inflexible, and, in answer to the prayers she addressed to him, a cherry-tree planted on the shore put forth its snowy blossoms every 1353month. Honorat no longer felt disposed to resist, and whenever he saw their white banner on St. Marguerite’s Isle he crossed the water, which became solid under his feet.

This island is also said to have afforded a secret asylum to the monks called to the contemplative life, or who wished to pass some time in utter solitude. Little is known of these lofty contemplatives, but it is believed that it was here St. Vincent of Lérins wrote his immortal work, the Commonitorium. St. Eucher also dwelt here for a time, and here received letters from St. Paulinus of Nola, who, like him, had abandoned the world.

It is melancholy that an isle, once consecrated to virginal purity and holy contemplation, should become a place of expiation for criminals, and that the most noted of its prisoners should almost efface the memory of St. Vincent and St. Margaret.

St. Honorat is just beyond the island of St. Marguerite. It is a low, flat island, also oval in form, only about a mile in length, and three kilometres in circumference.

“Parva, sed felix meritis Lérina,

Quam Paraclito, Genito, Patrique

Rité quingenti roseo dicârunt

Sanguine testes”

—Lérins is small in extent, but illustrious by its glory; five hundred martyrs have worthily consecrated it to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost by shedding their noble blood, says Gregorius Cortesius. Along the edge is a line of low, craggy rocks, called monks or brothers, which protect the shore from the encroachment of the waves. At the east are some little islets, the largest of which bears the name of St. Féréol, who, according to tradition, was here martyred by the Saracens and received burial.

1354The numerous trees that formerly grew on St. Honorat gave it the poetic title of the aigrette de la mer, but they are all gone except a few olives in the centre, and a girdle of pines along the shore which protect the interior from the winds injurious to vegetation, and serve as an agreeable promenade. But no, there is one more tree—it is rather a monument—the ancient palm of St. Honorat, which stands before the door of the conventual church. “Honor thy paternal aunt, the palm-tree,” says the prophet of Islam, “for she was created in Paradise and of the same earth from which Adam was made!” Let us especially honor this legendary palm; for if we understood, as the rabbis say Abraham did, the language of its leaves, that never cease their mysterious murmuring, even on a windless day, what a page in the history of the church we should learn!

A legend tells us that the island in ancient times was infested with venomous serpents, of which a frightful picture was drawn by the inhabitants of the mainland to retain St. Honorat at Cap Roux, whither he at first went on retiring from the world. When the saint arrived at Lérina, and beheld their number and size, he prostrated himself on the ground and cried to the Lord to exterminate them, and they all died at once. Their bodies infecting the air, the saint climbed a palm-tree and prayed to Him who had led him into this solitude, and the waves of the sea immediately rose and swept over the isle, carrying off the serpents that covered it.

This miracle of the palm, as it is called, is attested by St. Hilaire, who passed several years as a monk at Lérins, and speaks of the numbers of serpents that still infested 1355the neighboring shores. At all events, this isle, like Ireland, is free from them to this day, though they are to be found on St. Marguerite, which is not saying much for the gallantry of St. Honorat. This palm-tree has always been regarded with great veneration, and the legend was represented on the old shrine of St. Honorat—the saint in the palm-tree, and the waves sweeping the serpents into the sea. And on the arms of Lérins the abbatial crosier is placed between two palms.

Under the care of St. Honorat and his disciples the aspect of the island was before long so changed that St. Eucher, one of the first to inhabit it, says: “Watered by gushing fountains, rich with verdure, brilliant with flowers, odorous with sweet perfumes, and with delightful views on every side, it seems to those who inhabit it the very image of heaven toward which tend all their desires.” And Isidore, the monk, speaking of its eternal verdure, exclaims: “Pulchrior in toto non est locus orbe Lerina”—No, the universe presents not a more beautiful spot than Lérins.

But it appears that the holy cenobites suffered greatly at first from the want of pure water, and at length they came one day and prostrated themselves at St. Honorat’s feet, beseeching him to obtain by his prayers what nature had refused to the island. “Go, brethren,” he replied, “and dig perseveringly in the centre of the isle between the two palms. [It appears there were two then, as on the arms.] God, who has created the living springs of the earth, is sufficiently powerful to grant what you ask with faith.” The monks set to work with ardor, and dug till they came to a solid rock, without 1356finding water or the least sign of humidity. Discouraged, they returned to St. Honorat, who ordered them to attack the live rock and confide in the Lord. They returned obediently to the task, and succeeded in excavating a few feet deeper, but still without any result, and they finally requested permission to try another spot; but St. Honorat went with unshaken faith to the place and descended into the pit. After praying to the Lord he smote the rock thrice in the name of the Holy Trinity, and an abundant stream gushed forth. Such is the tradition of Lérins, founded on the testimony of SS. Eucher and Hilaire, who both lived with St. Honorat. St. Eucher says the waters rose to the surface and spread over the land around. There is nothing miraculous in the present appearance of the well, but an old farmer of this region, who has been down several times to clean it out, says the water issues from four different points, as from the extremities of a cross. It is now covered with a little rotunda, and over the entrance is an inscription in Latin to this purpose:

“The leader of the hosts of Israel made sweet the bitter waters; his rod brought forth a stream from the rock. Behold here the fountain that sprang up from the hard rock, the sweet water that welled from the bosom of the sea. Honorat smote the rock, and abundant waters gushed forth, thus renewing at once the prodigies Moses wrought with the tree and the rod.”

Everywhere on the island are débris of all kinds—hewn stones, old cement, bricks of Roman type, fragments of inscriptions, etc. The soil is red and stony. The centre is partly cultivated, and bears a 1357few grapes, olives, and vegetables. The Cistercians, who have been here eight years, have built a new convent near one end, which includes part of the old abbey and St. Honorat’s palm. This is enclosed by a high wall, as if they were not girt about by the great deep, and beyond this wall no woman is permitted to go. Even the Duchess of Vallombrosa, the great benefactress of the house, has been allowed to enter but once, and then as part of a suite of a princess to whom the pope had given a special permission. But there are some low buildings without the walls where pilgrims can find shelter, even those of the obnoxious sex, and be provided with refreshments. There are about fifty monks in the community, one of them a novice of sixteen, who looked like an anachronism in his Cistercian robes. Near the monastery is an orphan asylum containing about thirty boys under the care of Brother Boniface. They are taught trades, and for this purpose there are joiner’s shops, a printing establishment, etc., on the island.

While the monks were attending some rite we made the entire circuit of the island, following the path among the odorous pines on the shore, calm, peaceful, and embowered as the arcades of a cloister. These tall pines are aslant, as if bent by the winds, and the foliage, high up in the air, shelters from the sun, without excluding the sea breeze or obstructing the view. Everywhere was the flash of the waves, and the mysterious sound of the waters that gently broke upon the shore of this happy isle, mingled, as in the olden time, with the solemn measure of holy psalmody. It was delightful to wander in this lone aisle of nature, 1358and drink in the beauty of sea and land, and give one’s self up to the memories that embalm the place.

It was early in the fifth century when St. Honorat established himself here. He belonged to a patrician race, and his father, to divert his mind from religious things, sent him at an early age to the East with his brother Venance, who was of a livelier turn. Venance, however, soon yielded to Honorat’s moral ascendency, but died at Messenia, and the latter returned sorrowfully to Gaul with St. Caprais, his spiritual guide, who had accompanied them. For some time he lived as a hermit in a cave at Cap Roux. Then he came to Lérins, where numerous disciples gathered around him who are now numbered among the most eminent churchmen of Gaul. Maxime, Bishop of Riez, Hilary of Arles, Jacques of Tarentaise, Vincent of Saintes, Fauste of Riez, Ausile of Fréjus, were all formed in his school of Christian philosophy. St. Eucher, whom Bossuet calls “the great Eucher,” here forgot his noble birth and attained the sanctity which raised him to the see of Lyons. Salvian, surnamed “the Master of Bishops,” and styled “the Jeremias of his age,” on account of his lamentations over the woes and corruptions of the world, here wrote his treatise on the government of God. Cassian, after long journeys and great sorrows, spent a year at Lérins before he founded the abbey of St. Victor at Marseilles. St. Patrick, according to the tradition of the island, passed long years here in prayer and frightful austerities. St. Vincent of Lérins here wrote those works which have made him an authority in the church. St. Cæsarius also, who became one 1359of the most influential bishops of southern Gaul, and St. Loup of Troyes, who inspired so much deference in Attila, the Scourge of God, were among the first disciples of St. Honorat, and many more, some of whom have left no name on earth, but whose names are written in the Lamb’s Book of Life. “How many assemblies of saints have I seen in this isle!” cries St. Eucher—“precious vases, which spread abroad the sweet perfume of their virtues.” And St. Sidonius Apollinaris, with a bolder figure, says:

“Quanto illa insula plana

Miserit ad cœlum montes!”

—How many lofty mountains rise toward heaven from this low isle! And St. Cæsarius of Arles: “Happy, blessed isle of Lérins, thou art small and level, but from thee have risen innumerable mountains!” Over forty saints are mentioned by name in the Litany of Lérins, besides the hundreds of martyrs who are invoked.

Salvian thus alludes to the paternal rule of St. Honorat: “As the sun changes the aspect of the firmament by its splendor or obscurity, so joy and sadness are diffused among those who, under his paternal guidance, aim at heaven and devote themselves to the angelic functions. If Honorat suffers, all suffer; restored to health, all return to new life.”

Lérins became so renowned as a school of theology that, in the seventh century, there were three thousand and seven hundred monks, and the Christian world sent here to obtain its bishops and the directors for its monasteries. It was in this century that St. Aygulph established here the rule of St. Benedict. In the eighth century, 1360when the Saracens invaded the island, more than five hundred monks fell victims to their hatred of Christianity. Eleuthère, by the aid of King Pepin, restored the ruined buildings, but the enemy returned again, committing fresh ravages, and, indeed, devastating the island. These attacks at length became so frequent that the pope granted indulgences to all who would aid in defending it against the infidel. Whosoever devoted himself to this good work for the space of three months acquired the same indulgences as a pilgrim to the Holy Places at Jerusalem, and minor ones were accorded to those who sent substitutes. In 1088 was erected the lofty citadel, which is still the most prominent object on the island, as a retreat for the monks in time of danger. It was connected with the abbey by a subterranean passage. This is now a picturesque ruin. It is on the eastern shore of the island, and rises directly out of the water. The massive walls of hewn stone have acquired a soft, mellow tint that contrasts admirably with the sky and sea. They are scarred with many a cannon-ball that tells of more than one rude assault.

Here and there are narrow loop-holes, and high up in the air is a line of battlements that still seem to defy both the sea and the Moor. There was formerly a drawbridge, and nothing was lacking necessary to sustain a siege. This stronghold formed part of a line of signals along the sea-coast. It was four or five stories high, and contained four kitchens, several chapels, thirty-six cells for the monks and five for strangers, with cisterns, and everything to render it a complete monastery as well as castle. The Père Antonin was our guide around this 1361interesting ruin. It is entered by a spiral staircase, which brought us into a small court or cloister with several galleries around it, one above the other, communicating with the different stories, sustained by pillars of marble, porphyry, and granite. Old fragments of carved capitals, and inscriptions, some Roman, some Christian, were scattered here and there. In the centre is an immense cistern, paved with marble, which contains a never-failing supply of water. This was constructed by Gastolius de Grasse, who, having lost his wife and children, retired to the island to console himself with the thought of heaven and eternal reunion, devoting his whole fortune to the poor and the improvement of the monastery. The old chapter-room is utterly ruined. Its arches were blown up by some Scotchman in his attempts to find the supposed treasure of St. Honorat, and the rank grass is growing from the accumulated soil. There is the old refectory with its crumbling pulpit, and, in the next room, the lavatory of calcareous stone, like an ancient sarcophagus, where the monks washed their hands before entering the refectory. On it is graven in Latin: “O Christ! by thy right hand, which can cleanse us within and without, purify our souls, which this water cannot cleanse.” Then there is the chapel which once contained the relics of SS. Honorat,^[167] Caprais, Venance, Aygulph, etc., and the three sacred altars to which indulgences were attached at the request of the Emperor Charles V. The chapel of Notre Dame de Pitié, or of the dead, was used for domestic purposes by some layman who held the island after the Revolution, 1362and the place where once rose the solemn requiem and the odor of incense was now filled with the fumes of a kitchen. We went up, still by the spiral staircase, to the battlements. Here we looked down on the whole island. Before us was stretched the neighboring shore with fair towns and villages from Cannes to Nice, with the purple mountains in the background. On the other hand, in the distance, rose the mountains of Corsica. And all around was the sea that bathes the shores of so many storied lands.

With increased means of defence the prosperity of the abbey revived. It had the exclusive right, conferred by the counts of Provence, of fishing in the surrounding waters. It owned numerous priories all along the coast from Genoa to Barcelona, as well as in the interior. And it continued to be a centre from which radiated light, and many a person escaped from the Mare Magnum of the profane world to this haven of spiritual rest. We read that Bertrand, Bishop of Fréjus in the eleventh century, retired to St. Honorat (as the bishop of Valence has recently done) and died here in the odor of sanctity. For those who wished to lead the eremitical life there were formerly many cells around the island. How dear this holy retreat was to its inmates may be seen by a letter from Denis Faucher, whose duties retained him from the isle, to his superior: “My thoughts turn eagerly towards Lérins. Sad, I bewail my long exile. In spite of my oft-renewed entreaties, you defer my deliverance. A cruel grief torments my desolate soul. I love not these magnificent palaces. Let kings inhabit them. For them, they gleam with marble; for me, 1363the desert and the lonely shore. That little isle suffices for my happiness.”

Around the island were seven small chapels, or oratories, mostly on the shore, to which, like the seven stations at Rome, great indulgences were attached. These were successively visited by the pilgrims as a preparation for receiving the Holy Eucharist.

The tombs of the saints, the holy chapels, the soil impregnated with the blood of the martyrs, and the wondrous history of the island, gave it a glorious prestige that made it not only a resort for pilgrims, but even the dead were brought across the waters, with crucifix and lanterns held aloft in the boats, and chants mingling with the sad murmur of the waves, to be laid in this consecrated isle. Many remains of their marble tombs are still to be found.

We, too, made the stations of the seven holy chapels, though they are mostly in ruins. That of the Holy Trinity, in the eastern part of the island, is the most ancient. Its walls of massive stones are still erect. It is a Romanesque chapel, with three bays, the remains of an ancient porch, and vaults beneath for recluses or the dead. But the windows are gone, and rank weeds grow in the interior.

Only a few traces remain of St. Cyprian’s chapel; not St. Cyprian who shed his blood at Carthage, but St. Cyprian of Lérins, surnamed the Magician, who is honored September 26.

Further on, among the rocks on the shore, is the legendary cave known as the Baoumo de l’Abbat, only accessible by going down into the water and wading through a narrow crevice between two tall rocks. It was here, when St. Porcaire 1364and his five hundred companions were martyred by the Saracens, that two of the monks, Colomb and Eleuthère, fled in terror to conceal themselves. But they could still hear the vociferations of the infidel, and, their eyes being opened, could see the souls of their brethren ascending to heaven, conducted by the angels. Ravished by this spectacle, Colomb cried out with holy enthusiasm: “Let us go forth to be crowned like them. Let us fly to the Lord!” Eleuthère still shrank with fear, but Colomb went boldly out to share the glory of his brethren. Eleuthère afterwards gathered together the monks who had escaped, and became abbot of Lérins. Hence the name of the Abbot’s Cave, given to the place of his concealment.

Nearly opposite, in the centre of the island, is the octagon chapel of the Transfiguration, or St. Sauveur, with a star-shaped vault. It is twenty feet in diameter and twelve high. It has been rudely restored by the bishop of Fréjus, and has an ancient stone altar pierced with holes, as if for the passage of liquids. Some consider this chapel the ancient baptistery. The sailors call a neighboring inlet the Caranquo dé Sant Saouvadou, or Crique de St. Sauveur.

Several of these chapels were used in the construction of batteries by the Spaniards in the seventeenth century, as that of St. Pierre on the southern shore, near the remains of which is an old votive altar to Neptune with the inscription: Neptvno Veratia Montana.

The walls of St. Caprais are partly standing. This saint is still invoked in our day for rheumatism. A portion of his relics, hidden at the Revolution, is religiously preserved 1365at Chartèves, in the diocese of Soissons, and is the object of pilgrimages on the 20th of October. “Quæ sancta Caprasi vita senis!” says St. Sidonius Apollinaris—What an admirable life is that of the aged Caprais!

The chapel of St. Porcaire and the Five Hundred Martyrs, on the place where they were buried, has recently been repaired, and Father Boniface says Mass there every morning. Over the altar is a painting of St. Porcaire pointing to heaven and encouraging his brethren. The seventh chapel, St. Michael’s, is within the walls of the Cistercian convent.

The isles of Lérins have been a place of pilgrimage for more than a thousand years. They were already frequented when Pope Eugenius II. came here early in the ninth century to venerate the traces of the saints and martyrs. When he landed on the shore of St. Honorat, he put off his shoes and made the tour of the island in his bare feet. He consecrated the church, blessed the whole isle, and granted those who visited it with the proper dispositions between the eve of the Ascension and Whit Monday all the indulgences to be gained by a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, as well as smaller ones to those who came here at other seasons, with the exception of those who had been guilty of striking their parents or violating their marriage vows. In accordance with his wish, all who had gained the indulgence used to receive a palm in testimony thereof. These pilgrimages were called, in the language of the country, Romipetæ. All the towns on the neighboring coast were numerously represented here at the Grand Pardon. Twenty-seven nobles are mentioned as 1366coming once from Arles. Pilgrims even came from Italy. The old records tell how fifty-three came from Pisa to offer thanks for their miraculous escape after being taken by the corsairs. But the annual pilgrimage from Rians was the most famous, and has been celebrated in a quaint old Provençal ballad that is delightfully redolent of the age. It consisted of the greater part of the villagers, and to sanctify the journey, they used to halt at all the places of devotion along the road. Every one of these places had its holy legend that, like a fragrant flower, embalmed the way. At Cotignac they paused to drink at the miraculous fountain of St. Joseph—

Foou ana boiro à la sourço

Doou benhurux Sant Jaousé—

which, say the people, sprang up to quench the extreme thirst of a poor simple country laborer, named Gaspar, to whom the compassionate St. Joseph appeared under the form of an aged man, and pointed out the spot where water could be found—a spot since widely known as a place of miraculous cures and abundant spiritual favors.

Then the pilgrims ascended the hill of Verdale, near Cotignac, to pray at the altar of Nouastro Damo dé Graci. This is quite a noted chapel. It was visited in 1600 by Louis XIV. and his mother, Anne of Austria, for whom a new road was expressly constructed, still known as the Chemin de Louis Quartorze. He hung his cordon bleu on the Virgin’s breast, and Anne of Austria founded six Masses in the chapel. The king afterwards sent here copies of his marriage contract and the treaty of the Pyrenees in a magnificently-bound volume, by way of placing these important 1367transactions under the protection of our great Lady; and when his mother died he founded Masses here for her soul, and set up a marble tablet with a commemorative inscription. Pope Leo X. conferred indulgences on this chapel.

At the village of Arcs, or near it, the pilgrims turned aside to venerate the remains of the beautiful St. Rossoline, who sprang from the barons of Villeneuve and Sabran. Her cradle in infancy was surrounded by a supernatural light. The miracle of the roses was renewed in her favor to avert the anger of her father, who was weary of the importunity of beggars at his castle. At the age of seventeen she buried her youth and beauty in the Chartreuse of Celle Roubaud, and was consecrated deaconess by the bishop of Fréjus in 1288, which gave her, by an exceptional privilege to the nuns of this house, the right of reading the Gospel in church. Hence she is represented in art, not only with the crown of roses wherewith she was crowned on the day of her sacred espousals, but wearing a stole. She spent the remainder of her life in transcribing the sacred books, in order, as she said, to be always holding intercourse with God, and, as she could not preach in public, aid in propagating the Gospel. She held the office of prioress for a time, but, at her own request, ended her days as a recluse. While she was breathing her last St. Hugh of Lincoln and St. Hugo of Grenoble appeared and incensed her cell, and she died with Deo gratias on her lips.

An old ballad tells how, after her death, St. Rossoline delivered her brother, Helion de Villeneuve, a crusader, who had been taken prisoner 1368by the Saracens. She appeared to him in his dungeon, loosed his heavy chains, opened the doors, and conducted him to the sea-coast, where, spreading her veil on the waters, they both placed themselves thereon, and so came safely to Provence. Helion now happened to fall asleep, and when he awoke his sister was missing. He thought she had gone home to announce his arrival, but, when he came to the manor-house, learned she had for some time been dead. Her tomb became noted in Provence, and was one of the stations where pilgrims loved to pay their vows.

Our villagers next came to Fréjus to see the image of the Holy Child Jesus venerated in the cathedral. At Esterel the prior gave them refreshments under the great chestnut-trees near the inn. Cannes welcomed them with the ringing of bells, and went out to meet them in procession:

“Canno, villo maritimo—

Remplido dé zèlo è d’estimo

Per leis pélérins dé Rians—

Seis campanos souanoun toutos

Per faire la proucession.”

Then they came with

“Allegresso

Dins leis ilos dé Lérins.”

It seemed to them like entering Paradise. They went to shrift, visited the seven chapels, and finally came to the church of the glourious Sant Hounourat, where they received the Holy Eucharist and their palms. Besides the latter, they also carried away, as the custom was, some sprigs of a marine plant still known as the herbo doou par doun—the herb of the Pardon or Indulgence. This is the cineraire maritime, common on the shores of the isle, which has hoary, pinnatifid 1369leaves and a flower that grows in panicles.

On their way home the pilgrims went to pray at the tomb of Sant Armentari, a great miracle-worker at Draguignan, specially invoked for those who have lost their reason. But we shall speak of him further on. Arriving home, they were met by their fellow-townsmen and led in triumph to the church, when Benediction was given, thus ending the pilgrimage.

The expense of the journey, or the gradual lukewarmness of the people, at length diminished the number from Rians, and finally the pilgrimage ceased altogether, till a failure of the crops induced the town to revive it partially by sending a yearly deputation as its representative.

There is a naïve legend of one Boniface who lived at Oraison—a simple, upright man whom lack of worldly wisdom had reduced to such want as to force him to become the swineherd of a wicked usurer, named Garinus, who was blind. For six successive years he had visited Lérins at the time of the Grand Pardon, and, when the seventh arrived, he humbly begged permission of Garinus to go and gain the indulgence. Garinus refused, and, lest the swineherd should secretly join the other pilgrims, he carefully fastened him up. Boniface’s grief increased as the feast of Pentecost drew near. The eve arrived, but he was prevented from keeping even a lonely vigil by an overpowering drowsiness.

Suddenly the sound of music awoke him, and, opening his eyes, he found himself before the altar of the church of Lérins. When the stations were made and the divine offices were over, the monks, as usual, distributed the palms among 1370the Rominæ. Boniface also approached with the others to receive his, and then retired to an obscure corner of the church, where he soon fell sound asleep. When he awoke he found himself once more in the prison where he had been confined by his master. The rest of the pilgrims from Oraison arrived three days after, and, not knowing the state of affairs, complimented the usurer on his kindness to his servant. He denied having given Boniface permission to go, and summoned him to his presence. The swineherd related with great simplicity what had happened to him. Garinus was at once astonished and affected by the account, and besought Boniface to give him the palm he had brought from the holy isle. Taking it reverently in his hands, he applied it to his eyes, and at once not only recovered his sight, but the eyes of his soul were likewise opened.

But to return to the history of the island. The abbey was secularized in 1788—some say on account of the luxuries and excesses of the monks. But the inventory shows how few luxuries they really had—not more than the simplest villagers now possess. The monks withdrew to their families. Not one was left to guard the graves of the martyrs and continue the prayers of so many ages. The last prior of Lérins, Dom Théodule Bon, died at his sister’s residence in Vallauris. The people of Cannes used to say of him: Moussu lou Priour es Bouan dé noum et dé fach—M. le Prieur is good by name and good by nature.

In 1791 the island was sold at public auction, and the purchaser’s daughter, who had been an actress, came here to reside. O isle of saints!... In 1856 Mr. Sims, 1371an Anglican minister, bought it. He showed some respect for the ancient monuments, and had begun to restore the citadel when he died. The bishop of Fréjus bought it in 1859. Two bishops, several dignitaries of the church, and a number of priests came over to take possession of the island. A great crowd awaited them. The clergy (those of Cannes bearing the relics of St. Honorat) advanced toward the old church, chanting the mournful psalm, Deus, venerunt gentes, many verses of which were so particularly applicable. The walls so long profaned were blessed, and the crowd prostrated themselves while the Litany of Lérins was solemnly sung. Some agricultural brothers of the Order of St. Francis were established here for a time. On the eve of the feast of St. Caprais (St. Honorat’s spiritual guide) the bishop blessed the chapel of St. Porcaire and the Five Hundred Martyrs, which had been restored, and Mass was said amid the ruins of the old church of St. Honorat.

There are several places of great interest on the mainland, associated with the saints of Lérins, all of which we devoutly visited as a part of our pilgrimage. One is Cap Roux, at the western termination of the Bay of Cannes, always dear to the monks of the isle on account of the baume, or cave, on the western side of the cliff, inhabited for some time by St. Honorat after his return from the East, and still called by his name. The ascent to this grotto is rather dangerous, and at the foot was once an oratory where pilgrims stopped to pray before undertaking the ascent. They used to cry: “Sancte Maguncti!” perhaps because they associated the name of 1372this saint of Lérins with the Provençal word m’aganti, as if they would say, Saint I-cling-to, as they seized hold of the sides of the cliff.

Denis Faucher, the monk, graved an inscription in Latin verse over the entrance to the Baume de St. Honorat, which may thus be rendered: “Reader, in Honorat, our father, thou wilt find an example of lofty virtue and reason to admire the wonderful gifts of God. Others visit the holy places and seek afar off the noble models they have not at home. The renown of Honorat renders sacred every place he approached, though now devoid of his presence. Behold this retreat, once almost inaccessible to the wild beasts, now rendered so famous by the holy bishop as to attract innumerable visitors from every land.” In the cave there has been for centuries an altar for celebrating the Christian mysteries. At the left is a well that rarely fails, even in the greatest drought. At the right is a hollow in the rock like the impress of the human form, called by the people the Couche de St. Honorat. Over it is also an inscription by the same monk: “Illustrious pontiff, from the height of heaven reveal thy august presence to him who seeks thy traces upon earth.”

Another cave in the side of the mount near the sea was inhabited for a time by St. Eucher, to whom his wife, Galla, came to bring food while he gave himself up to contemplation. An angel revealed to the people of Lyons where he lived concealed, and they sent messengers to ask him to be their bishop.

St. Armentaire, who was bishop of Embrun in the middle of the fifth century, being deposed by the council of Riez, retired to Cap 1373Roux. It was he who slew the dragon that infested the neighborhood of Draguignan. The fame of his sanctity led to his being chosen bishop of Antibes, but his body was, after his death, brought back to Draguignan and placed in a church he himself had erected in honor of St. Peter. The concourse to his tomb was formerly very great, as we have seen in the case of the pilgrimage from Rians.

There were hermits at Cap Roux as late as the eighteenth century, and pilgrims used to go there in procession, chanting the litany of Lérins, to implore the cessation of some scourge. Now it is only visited from time to time by a solitary devotee, or some naturalist to study the flora and the formation of the rocks, who pauses awhile at the cave and drinks at the fountain.

About a league west of Cannes, above Cap Roux, is Mt. Arluc, which rises out of the plain of Laval. It belongs to the tertiary formation, and looks so artificial that it has often been regarded as a tumulus made by the Romans, who, according to tradition, had an intrenched camp here to protect the Aurelian road^[168] that ran through the plain, as well as the galleys on the coast. After the submission of the province to the Roman domination a temple was built here in honor of Venus, who could not have desired a fairer shore, in sight of the very sea from which she sprang. Her altar was surrounded by trees to veil her unholy rites, and the mount took the name of Ara-luci—altar of the sacred wood—whence the name of Arluc. This consecrated grove was cut down by St. Nazaire, abbot of Lérins, 1374who knew the importance of destroying these high places of the Gentiles. To him, too, the waves beneath were always whispering of love, but not profane love. They spoke of “love eternal and illimitable, not bounded by the confines of the world or by the end of time, but ranging beyond the sea, beyond the sky, to the invisible country far away.” And he set up an altar to the Infinite One, and beside the church built a monastery, which he peopled with holy maidens under the direction of Hélène, a princess of Riez. One of the first abbesses bore the name of Oratorie. It was to her St. Césaire of Arles addressed two of his essays: one on the qualities that should be possessed by those who have the direction of souls; the other on the text, “O the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and the knowledge of God!”

About the year 677 St. Aygulph, abbot of Lérins, rebuilt or enlarged this monastery at the request of several noble ladies of the region, and, the house having perhaps been depopulated by the Saracens, a colony of nuns came here from Blois under the care of St. Angarisma. When the holy abbot was martyred, Angarisma, learning the fate of her spiritual father, went with the sisterhood to venerate his remains. The monks who had escaped described the sufferings and constancy of the martyrs, and showed their mangled remains. One of the nuns, named Glauconia, who was blind, applied the right arm of St. Aygulph to her eyes and at once recovered her sight. Whereupon the abbess begged for his body, but in vain. The arm which had restored Glauconia’s sight was given to her, however, and they carried it with them to Arluc. St. Aygulph is invoked in this region still, under 1375the name of St. Aïgou, for diseases of the eye, and a statue of him is to be seen at Châteauneuf in the chapel of Notre Dame de Brusc.

The nuns of Arluc fled several times before the Saracens, but we read of the monastery in the tenth century, when St. Maxime, of the illustrious family of De Grasse, came here in search of Christian perfection. She was afterwards sent to found a house at Callian, where part of her remains are still preserved.

In the life of St. Honorat there is an interesting legend of one of the nuns of Arluc, named Cibeline, the daughter of Reybaud, a lord of Antibes. She had been married in early life, but lost her husband soon after, and was still renowned for her beauty when she became infected with leprosy. St. Honorat appeared to Reybaud in a dream and said to him: “Give me thy daughter as a bride.” He had the same vision three times, which at last so impressed him that he took Cibeline with him and went to Lérins to relate it to the holy abbot Porcaire. The latter at once comprehended its spiritual significance and said to Cibeline: “Wilt thou, out of love to God and devotion to St. Honorat, lead henceforth a pure life and take the sacred veil in the monastery of Arluc?” Cibeline then confessed this had been the earliest desire of her heart, and that she regarded her disease as the judgment of God for having violated the vow she had made in yielding to worldly persuasions and wedding the husband she had lost. St. Porcaire then took pure water, in which he plunged holy relics, and ordered her to bathe therein. She was instantly cured of her leprosy, and her father led her to Arluc and consecrated her to God.

1376Arluc probably took the name of St. Cassian, by which it is now more generally known, in the fourteenth century, when it fell under the jurisdiction of the abbey of St. Victor at Marseilles, which Cassian had founded. Nor is the name inappropriate for this mount that stands in sight of the places rendered sacred by St. Honorat and St. Eucher, for whom Cassian had so great an admiration as to cry in one of his books on the ascetic life dedicated to them: “O holy brothers! your virtues shine upon the world like great beacon-lights. Many saints will be formed by your example, but will scarcely be able to imitate your perfection.”

Cassian has been regarded as a saint in Provence, and the people of Cannes used to make a romérage, or pilgrimage, to the chapel that took his name at Arluc, on the 23d of July, the festival of St. Cassian.