St. Oren's Priory.

So far Mr. Tyndall's experiments agree perfectly with the theory; they confirm it, but they do not extend it. He has, however, made others, which seem to disclose new points in the theory of exchange of movements between the ether and ponderable matter. It might no longer be the atoms or the molecules which would have to be considered in respect to the ethereal vibrations, but even the particles, if sufficiently small. In fact, these particles reflect the rays not absorbed, according to entirely new laws. In the first place, although belonging to colorless liquids, they reflect the blue rays much better than the others. This is true of all the vapors tried, without exception. This elective reflection only holds when their dimensions are small, since it disappears as the size of the particles increases. This is quite a new fact, and, it must be acknowledged, as yet quite unexplained. Secondly, they polarize light according to laws which must also be called new, being entirely different from those given by theory and experiment for polarization by reflection. In one respect these laws are not new; for they have been long observed in atmospheric polarization; but this has always been one of the knotty points of the undulatory theory. Evidently, Mr. Tyndall's experiments do not clear it up entirely; but they have made an important advance in that direction, by showing to what physical circumstance this polarization is probably due. It would appear, that is, that in the higher regions of our atmosphere there are vapors which, instead of condensing in particles large enough to form ordinary clouds, are precipitated like those used by Mr. Tyndall, and fill the air with extremely small particles and with incipient clouds. This hypothesis is certainly very probable. It accounts at once for the blueness of the sky, and for its polarization of light.

Here is, then, a problem for theorists, in a better condition than previously. We hope to return to it shortly, in a subsequent bulletin. In conclusion, let us point out a new application of these experiments to the physical theory of comets. Mr. Tyndall considers the cometary matter to be a vapor on which the sun's rays act physically and chemically. These two actions would be somewhat contrary to each other; for the first would tend to evaporate the liquid particles and expand the vapor, while the second would precipitate this vapor in the form of incipient cloud. As the comet approaches solar action, forming an immense volume, of which the visible part will be only a small fraction, the head being the most condensed portion. If, now, we suppose the head to absorb the heating rays more abundantly than the remaining ones, in the cool shadow behind it the chemical action may prevail, and form an incipient cloud, which will be the tail of the comet. Elsewhere, the calorific action will predominate, and the vapor will remain invisible. Such is substantially the new theory of comets. It certainly satisfies the general conditions of the problem, and especially it explains very naturally the enormously rapid movements observed in the tails of these bodies. But will what is still undetermined in it enable it to be accommodated to the numerous facts already observed, and hereafter to be so? Here, also, it may be regretted that the spectroscope was not employed by the English physicist. The spectra of the incipient clouds might have been compared with those of comets' tails; and would have given an excellent test of the theory. Perhaps, however, he has reserved this part of his researches for a future publication.

"Pour chercher mieux."—Device of Queen Christina of Sweden.

PART I."I hear a voice you cannot hear,Forbidding me to stay:I see a hand you cannot see,Which beckons me away."

Such were the words on my lips, my dear friend, when I bade you farewell and promised that I would, from time to time, give you a picture of my convent life, that you might in spirit follow me closely into the sealed garden of the Beloved, though forced by circumstances to remain far from me in body.

Fatigued with my long journey, you can imagine I was very glad when I reached this city. I hastened to find theRue du Prieuré, a narrow, gloomy street, paved with cobble-stones, cheerless and uninviting. But about half-way down, I saw a statue of Mary Most Pure, in a niche over a large doorway, with her all-embracing arms extended in welcome. That was asursum cordawhich reassured me. The place where Mary is honored is always a home for her children. The sight of her image brings peace and repose to the soul, and I turned aside to rest under her shadow. It was the grand portal of St. Oren's Priory, an arched passage through the very building, wide enough to admit a carriage. I stopped before the ponderous door that was to open for me a new life. This was the door I had so often heard compared with another portal which bears the inscription:

"All ye who enter here, leave hope behind."

But above my head was the Madonna which meant love and peace.Peace; yes, that was what I sought, like the Tuscan poet at the Italian monastery:

"And as he asks what there the stranger seeks,My voice along the cloister whispers, Peace!"

The door opened just wide enough to admit me, and, passing through the arch, I found myself in a small paved court, enclosed by the monastery on all sides, where the sun only comes for a short time at midday—a grateful refuge from its heat. In it is a fine large linden-tree, under whose wide-spreading branches I found a group of nuns—it being the hour of daily reunion. I felt bewildered by the sight of so many strange faces, but my first impression was one of general kindness and cordiality. I could not have asked for a kinder welcome, and surely hope and peace were on every face. One of the mothers, seeing my fatigue, took me to the chapel for a moment, and then, through long corridors, to a small cell; thus giving me a general glance at my foreign home. I found thick stone walls, long passages, paved floors, a dim old chapel, and narrow cells. You will think this fearful; on the contrary, it is charming because monastic. One of the narrow cells is mine; furnished with a table, chair, bed, andprie-dieu. On the latter stands a crucifix, and on the wall hangs a print of Notre Dame de Bon Secours. There is one window in it,

"Looking toward the golden Eastern air."

It opens in the middle, longitudinally, like all the windows here; each part swinging back like a folding-door. Looking through it upon the convent garden, the first thing I saw was a lay-sister, bearing on her head an antique-looking jar, which she had just filled from a huge well. There are two of these immense wells in the garden, dug by the monks of old! Yes,monks, for our monastery was once a Benedictine abbey, and dates from the tenth century. There's hoary antiquity for you, which has such a charm for us people of the new world. These first days, while resting from my fatigue, I have been looking over the annals of this old establishment, and must give you an outline of them.

Do you remember reading, in theChroniclesof Sir John Froissart, of the Armagnacs, so long at enmity with the house of Foix? The first Count of Armagnac, was the founder of St. Oren's Priory. He was known by the name of Bernardle Louche. He made this city the capital of hiscomté;and one of his first acts, after his establishment here, was to build this monastery. The old parchment in the archives of the priory, quite in accordance with the spirit of the times, runs thus:

"Bernardus Luscus, mindful of his sins, unable to fulfil a vow he had made to visit the Holy Places at Jerusalem, and desirous of liquidating his debts to Divine Justice, resolved, by the counsel of his wife, the Domina Emerina, and the advice of the magnates, his lieges, to found a monasteryin honorem Sanctorum Joannis Baptistae et Evangelistae et Beati Orentii, that therein prayer might be daily offered for his sins and for those of his posterity."

The site selected for the erection of this monastery was on the banks of a branch of the Garonne, at the foot of an old city known in the time of the Caesars as Climberris, and builten amphithéatre, with superb terraces, upon the side of an elevation. It was fitting that the abbey, which Count Bernard had founded for the spiritual weal of himself and his posterity, and endowed with "lands and livings many a rood," should find shelter beneath his fostering eye at the very foot of his crescent-shaped city, which was itself surmounted by the embattled walls of his own stronghold. Thus enclosed by hills on the north and west, and the peaceful, sluggish Algersius on the east, threading its way toward the Garonne—its current soft-gliding and calm as the life of the cloister—what spot more suitable could Count Bernard have found on which to build a house of prayer? The warm sun of France to which it thus lay exposed was tempered by the keen, invigorating winds that came from the snowy Pyrenees, which glitter away to the south.

In this very place, before the advent of the Messiah, in mythological times, a temple had stood in honor of Diana, the old ideal of a people's reverence for purity, and one of nature's foreshadowings of the Christian exaltation of chastity. The Auscitains being early converted to Christianity, their zealous apostles overthrew the high places of the Gentiles, and thereon set up the victorious ensign of the cross—Vexilla regis prodeunt!

On the ruins of Diana's temple was erected an altar to the true God, and a baptistery, named, as all baptisteries are, after the precursor of Christ, where came the warlike Ausci to be regenerated at the holy hands of the zealous St. Taurin, and the fearless, idol-demolishing St. Oren, who in turn fixed their abode hard by. Other saints too have lived on the same spot, and their bodies were enshrined hereon after their spirits had passed away.St. Taurin, St. Oren, St. Léothade, St. Austinde, names ever venerable to the heart of an Auscitain, living in the shadow of your shrines, sheltered by your votaries who merit for me your protection, I should be ungrateful to you, untrue to my own heart, did I not often murmur your potent names and praise you to those afar off!

St. Taurin was the fourth successor of St. Paterne, whom St. Sernin, the great apostle not only of Toulouse but of all this part of France, consecrated first bishop of Eauze, then the metropolis of Novempopulania, as Gascony was called. Forced by barbarians, who came in search of spoils, to quit Eauze, St. Taurin took refuge in Climberris, bringing with him, among other relics, the bodies of his four sainted predecessors in the episcopacy: St. Paterne, St. Servand, St. Optat, St. Pompidien. At that time, there were two distinct cities here—Climberris, a Gaulish city, on the side and crest of the hill, and Augusta Auscorum, on the eastern bank of the Algersius, which last received its name from the Emperor Augustus, who passed through it on his return from Spain, and gave it the rights of a Roman city. St. Saturnin had first preached the gospel here, and built a church under the invocation of St. Peter in the city of Augusta; and at the foot of Climberris, where our priory now stands, was a church of St. John. St. Taurin chose the latter as his metropolitan church—a rank it retained for a long period—and there enshrined the holy bodies he had brought with him.

The zeal of St. Taurin was not confined to his own flock. Hearing of a great Druidical celebration in the woods of Berdale, he repaired thither. The unholy rites had commenced, and a profound silence reigned, when all at once a loud voice was heard. It was that of St. Taurin, denouncing their idolatry and calling upon the multitude to turn to the true God. The crowd was at first too much astonished at his boldness to move, but after some hesitation, incited by the Druids, overwhelmed the apostle with a shower of stones. Finding he still breathed, they cut off his head. His feast is solemnized with the utmost pomp in this diocese, on the fifth of September, which is believed to be the day of his martyrdom.

St. Oren belonged to a Spanish family of high rank, his father being the Duke of Urgel and Governor of Catalonia. He early renounced his right of heritage, but, after the death of his brother, succeeded to the family estates. He sold all his property, distributed the money among the poor, and retired to a hermitage amidst the mountains of Bigorre, where he led an angelic life, giving himself up to severe austerities and the contemplation of divine things. The renown of his virtues and his reputation for learning caused his nomination to this see, of which he reluctantly took possession in the year 400. He displayed extraordinary energy and zeal in rooting out the vestiges of idolatry still lingering in his diocese, and in reviving true piety among the lukewarm of his flock.

St. Oren was a learned man and a poet. The great Fortunatus, Bishop of Poitiers, who lived in the sixth century, mentions his poems, of which some fragments have come down to us. HisNomenclature, in particular, has always been known and quoted. It is more extensive than any other ancient list of the symbols of the God-Man. Sylvius, in the fifth century, gives forty-five of these symbolical names in seven verses. Clement of Alexandria, in his hymn to our Saviour, gives ten. St. Cyril mentions twelve, in a sermon.The list of St. Phébade of Agen, in the fourth century, comprises twenty-one. TheNomenclatureof Constantinople mentions twelve; that of Rome, twenty-two; but that of St. Oren, composed in his solitude of Bigorre, gives, in five distichs, fifty-two of these emblematical names of our Saviour. I quote it entire:

De Epithetis Salvatoris Nostri.Janua,Virgo,Leo,Sapientia,Verbum,Rex,Baculus,Princeps,Dux,Petra,Pastor,Homo,Retia,Sol,Sponsus,Semen,Mons,Stella,Magister,Margarita,Dies,Agnus,Ovis,Vitulus,Thesaurus,Fons,Vita,Manus,Caput,Ignis,Aratrum,Flos,Lapis angularis,Dextra,Columba,Puer,Vitis,Adam,Digitus,Speculum,Via,Botryo,Panis,Hostia,Lex,Ratio,Virga,Piscis,Aquila,Justus,Progenies regis,regisque Sacerdos;Nomina Magna Dei,major at ipse Deus.

"These are the great names of God, but he himself is still far greater!" says the last line.

St. Oren never lost his love for solitude, and this attraction, added to the burden of his episcopal duties, induced him at last to resume his hermit's staff and set out for the grotto, which had been the witness of his former austerities and was the never-ceasing object of his regret. His flock, in consternation, pursued him and brought him back to his post, where his piety, his talents, and the miracles he wrought, gave him preeminence among all the bishops of Aquitaine. When Theodoric I., King of the Visigoths, was besieged at Toulouse, by Lictorius, lieutenant of the celebrated Aétius, the former sent St. Oren, with several other bishops, to arrange terms of peace with the Roman commander. Lictorius received them with haughty contempt, and, sure of victory, rejected all their propositions. Then Theodoric humbled himself before the Lord of Hosts. He covered himself with sackcloth, prostrated himself in prayer, and then went forth to battle and to victory.

Shortly after this embassy, St. Oren felt his end approaching, and armed himself with the holy sacraments for the last earthly combat. His soul passed away, with a sweet odor, on the first of May, and his body was enshrined in the church of St. John, which subsequently took his name. He has always been greatly venerated in this country, and is invoked in all diseases of the mind. Count John I. of Armagnac gave a magnificent silver bust as a reliquary for the skull of St. Oren. His feast is still religiously celebrated, and is a great holiday among the common people, who assemble after vespers to dance theirrondeauxin the open air.

The church of St. John, where reposed a long line of holy apostles and prelates, was, with the two cities, destroyed by the Saracens, in the eighth century. But in the year of grace 956, as I have said, Bernard le Louche, inspired by God, built on the same spot a magnificent church with three naves, to which he joined a Benedictine abbey. They were built of the stones of the city walls, which, two centuries before, had been levelled to the dust by the Moors. A hundred years later, this abbey was reduced to a priory by St. Hugo, and affiliated to his abbey at Cluny. The names of a long succession of abbots and priors are recorded in the chronicles of St. Oren's Priory, most of whom belonged to the noblest families of the country. During the French Revolution of 1793, the abbatial church and a part of the monastery were, alas! destroyed; but there is a quadrangular tower—a part of the original abbey—still standing, and a fine Gothic chapel, which dates from the fourteenth century, besides a more modern, and still large, edifice, with long dim corridors leading away to austere cells, or to spacious sunnysalons. These were taken possession of by a venerable community of Ursuline nuns, who had been dispersed during the Reign of Terror, but who, as soon as permitted, hastened like doves to find a new ark.

A steep spiral staircase, of hewn stone, lighted only by long narrow chinks left purposely in the thick walls, leads to the top of the old tower, which commands a delightful view of the valley of the Algersius. At the foot, toward the south, lies the convent garden, with its wells, its almond-trees, acacias, vines, and rose-bushes—loved haunts of the nightingales, which I heard there for the first time in my life. On the east passes theroute impériale, beneath the very convent walls, and beyond, parallel with it, flows the river which gives its name to thedépartement. Centuries ago, when the country was more thickly wooded, it is said to have been a navigable river, and merited to be sung by Fortunatus, who was a poet as well as bishop. The eastern bank is shaded by a long grove of noble trees—a public promenade—where, at due hours, may be seen all the fashion, valor, and sanctity of the city. Through the trees may be caught a glimpse of an old Franciscan monastery, now an asylum for the insane, where once stood a temple of Bacchus, whose memory is still perpetuated in this land of vineyards. There, in the fourteenth century, was buried Reine, niece of Pope Clement V., and wife of John I., the thirteenth Comte d'Armagnac. Near by is the airy tower of St. Pierre, first built by St. Saturnin, in the third century, and rebuilt several times since—the last time, after its destruction by the Huguenots in the civil and religious disturbances of the sixteenth century. The music of itscarillonfloats through the valley at an early hour every morning, summoning the devout to mass.

Cradling the valley toward the west is the quaint old city. Its houses of cream-colored stone with red tiled roofs rise one behind the other on terraces, and, crowning all, are the towers of one of the finest cathedrals of France.

Due east from the tower, in the background, rises a high hill, called in the time of the Romans Mount Nerveva, but which now glories in the more Christian appellation of Mount St. Cric. There our glorious St. Oren battered down a temple of Apollo, but its summit is still lit up by that god at each return of hallowed morn.

Away to the south stretch the Pyrenees, hiding Catholic and chivalric Spain, and gleaming in the sun like the very walls of the celestial city. Even Maldetta, with its name of ill omen, looks pure and holy.

This old tower is for me a loved haunt on a bright sunny day. I often betake myself to its top to enjoy all the reveries inspired by the scene before me. Its venerable, almost crumbling walls, its curious recesses and carvings, speak loudly of the monks of old. There I seem nearer to heaven; I breathe a purer, a more refined atmosphere, which exalts the heart and quickens its vibrations.

There is a large sunny apartment in the tower in which I witnessed a most affecting event—the death of a nun. So impressed was I by this flight of an angelic soul to the everlasting embraces of the Spouse of virgins, that I cannot refrain from giving you a sketch of its closing scenes.

When I first arrived at the priory, poor Sister Saint Sophie wandered around like a ghost, already far gone with pulmonary consumption. She entered the cloister while only seventeen years of age, wishing to offer the flower of her life to him who loves the fragrance of an innocent heart. Now, at the age of twenty-eight, she was called to exchange the holy chants of the choir for the divineTrisagiumof the redeemed above. Her health had long been delicate; but the innocence of her soul, the natural calmness of her disposition, her strong religious faith, and her detachment from earth, made her look forward to death without the slightest apprehension. She spoke of the event as she would of going to the chapel where dwells the Beloved.

About a week before her death, she went to the infirmary, by her own request—to die. The infirmary is a commodious apartment in the second story of the tower, a room which most of the nuns shrink from approaching, for there they have seen so many of their sisters die. I went every day to see poor Sister Sophie. The room was adorned with religious engravings, a crucifix, a statue of the Madonna, and a holy-water font. On the mantel were some books of devotion, among which I noticed the New Testament in French. I always found this dying sister calm, excepting one evening, when her cheeks glowed with a burning fever. It was only a few days before her death, and was caused by her last struggle with earth. When that was past, she was ready to die. Her sister, longing to see her once more, had obtained permission of the ecclesiastical superiors to enter the monastery. But Sister Sophie, wishing to avail herself of this last opportunity of self-sacrifice, opposed her entrance; and it was this struggle between natural affection and a sense of duty which produced so violent a fever. This act of self-denial affected me deeply.

One Saturday, at about half-past eight in the morning, I was hastily summoned by the Mère St. J—— to go to the infirmary, for Sister Sophie was dying. I hurried down. Poor Sophie lay, ghastly white, with her crucifix in her hands. Her rosary and girdle lay, on the bed, at the foot of which was placed an engraving of the Sacred Heart of our Lord Jesus Christ, in the opening of which reposed a dove—emblem of the soul that trusts in the Saviour. She was perfectly calm. There was not a sign of apprehension. Her brother-in-law, who was her physician, stood by her bedside, and said she could not survive the day. Her confessor, the Abbé de B——, a venerable priest of more than four score years, asked if she had any thing on her conscience. She shook her head. Her soul was clad in its pure bridal robe, ready for the marriage supper of the Lamb. All went to the chapel, and, with lighted tapers, two and two, followed the holy viaticum to the infirmary. It was borne by thecuréin a silver ciborium, and placed on an altar erected in the middle of the room. It was a most solemn scene—the nuns kneeling all around with wax tapers in their hands, their heads bowed down in adoration, and their black robes and veils flowing around them, all responding to the priest, who, in white surplice and stole, brought comfort to the dying. He demanded of the dying nun a profession of her faith; if she died in charity with all mankind; and if she were sorry, and begged pardon of God, for all her sins—to which she faintly but distinctly responded. He then gave her the divine viaticum, and prepared to administer to her the sacrament of extreme unction.As he anointed each organ, he said, before repeating the formula of the church, "O God! forgive me the sins I have committed bysuch an organ," (of sight, hearing, etc.) After this sacrament he accorded her the plenary indulgence of Bona Mors. I was very much affected by these holy rites, and the more so as I then witnessed them for the first time.

I went to see the departing sister several times in the course of the day. The death-struggle was long, but there was no appearance of suffering.

At eight o'clock in the evening, while we were reading the meditation for the following morning, a nun came in haste. "Quick! quick! pray for Sister Sophie. She is dying!" In a moment the infirmary was crowded with nuns. Sister Sophie was in her agony. The crucifix was still in her hand. A blessed candle of pure white wax was burning beside her, and the sub-prioress was reading solemn prayers for the departing soul, to which the nuns sobbingly responded. At the head of her bed stood a sister, who sprinkled her from time to time with holy water. Near her stood another prompting pious aspirations: "Jesus! Mary! Joseph! may I breathe out my soul with you in peace!"

At half-past eight she had given up her soul as calmly as if going to sleep. TheSub-venitewas said, and then we all went to the chapel to pray for the departed.

The next morning, (Sunday,) on my way to the chapel, I stopped at the infirmary. Sister Sophie was lying on a bier, clad in her religious habit, with the sacred veil upon her head, and in her clasped hands a crucifix, and the vows which bound her to the Spouse of virgins. Her countenance was expressive of happiness and repose. A wax candle burned on each side of her head. A holy-water font stood near, and some nuns knelt around, praying for their departed sister. That day, masses were offered for her in every church and chapel in the city, and at a later hour the nuns said the office of the dead in choir. At four o'clock, I went again to the infirmary, to see her placed in her coffin. I have witnessed among those who are vowed to a life of holy poverty many examples of detachment from every thing the world deems essential, but I have never seen any thing which so went to my heart as when I saw Sister Sophie's coffin. It was simply a long deal box, unpainted and without lining. The body was placed therein, still in the religious costume. The black veil covered the face, and on her head was a wreath of white flowers. How bitterly did the nuns weep as they placed their sister in her narrow cell—even more austere than that in which she had lived! I too wept profusely to see one buried thus humbly, but perhaps suitably. The lid being nailed down, the coffin was covered with a pall, on which was a great white cross, and on it the novices spread garlands of fresh white flowers mingled with green leaves.

The nuns are buried in the cemetery of St. Oren's parish, and nothing is more affecting than when, at the portal of the convent, the coffin is entrusted to the hands of strangers; the nuns not being able to go beyond the limits of the cloister. It is then conveyed to the exterior church. Several priests received Sister Sophie at the door, and sprinkled the coffin with holy water, chanting meanwhile theDe ProfundisandRequiem aeternam. How awfully solemn are these chants of the dead! Every tone went to my very heart. The coffin was then borne to the centre of the church, where it was surrounded by lights, and the priests chanted the office for the dead, at the close of which they went in procession to the cemetery.First were three acolytes, the middle one bearing an immense silver cross, which gleamed aloft in the departing sunlight; and the other two bore the censer and thebénitier;then came the priests, two and two, chanting theMiserere. The coffin followed, borne on a bier by six peasant women dressed in white, with curious white caps and kerchiefs. Their sepulchral appearance made me shudder. Then went four young ladies bearing a pall, on which was the great white cross and the significant death's-head. Many other ladies followed in procession. Arriving at the cemetery, the grave was blessed, while we all knelt about it. Water that had been sanctified with prayer was sprinkled on the fresh earth; clouds of incense rose from the smoking censer, andEgo sum resurrectio et vitaburst in solemn intonations from the lips of the priests. Then the coffin was lowered into the grave; the young ladies threw in garlands of flowers which were soon covered. Poor Sophie was at rest, and her soul was enjoying the reward of her sacrifices. I bedewed her grave with my tears. Never was I so peculiarly affected by any death as by this, every circumstance of which is fastened most vividly in my memory. TheDe Profundisand theMisererestill ring in my ear, and poor Sister Sophie, as she lay in her agony, surrounded by the spouses of Christ, praying amid their sobs, for her admittance into Paradise, will never be forgotten. "Requiescat in pace!"

But of all parts of the priory, I love best the antique chapel of the Immaculate Conception. It is entered through the cloister by a low, dim vestibule, supported by "ponderous columns, short and low." A few steps, and the arches spring lightly up, forming a perfect gem of a Gothic chapel, with its altar faithful to the east—

"Mindful of Him who, in the Orient born,There lived, and on the cross his life resigned,And who, from out the regions of the morn,Issuing in pomp, shall come to judge mankind."

Three ogival windows in the chancel throw on the pavement the warm gules of an escutcheon emblazoned on the glass. They diffuse not too strong a light—only enough for a glow around the tabernacle, leaving the rest of the chapel in a shade that disposes the heart to contemplation and prayer. In the morning, at mass, the rising sun streams through, mingling with the light of the tapers, like that of nature and grace in the hearts of the worshippers. Over the altar, in a niche, is a statue of Mary Most Pure, with the divine Babe in her arms—as I love to see all her statues, that the remembrance of the Blessed Virgin may never be disconnected from that of the Incarnation. "The Madonna and Child—a subject so consecrated by antiquity," says Mrs. Jameson, "so hallowed by its profound significance, so endeared by its associations with the softest and deepest of our human sympathies, that the mind has never wearied of its repetition, nor the eye become satiated with its beauty. Those who refuse to give it the honor due to a religious representation yet regard it with a tender, half-unwilling homage, and when the glorified type of what is purest, loftiest, holiest, in womanhood stands before us, arrayed in all the majesty that accomplished art, inspired by faith and love, could lend her, and bearing her divine Son, rather enthroned than sustained, on her maternal bosom,'we look, and the heart is in heaven!' and it is difficult, very difficult, to refrain from an 'Ora pro nobis!'"

In this chapel Mary has been honored for ages. The chronicles of the priory tell us that in the days of the monks of St. Benedict crowds of the faithful filled, as now, this chapel on the eighth of December, its patronalféte. The deep-toned voices that then chanted the praises of Mary have died away, but the notes have been caught up and continued in softer, sweeter tones by the lips of the spouses of Christ.

I can never enter this chapel without a thrill. I love to linger beneath its vault of stone, the arches of which spring from corbells quaintly sculptured, and form, at their intersection, medallions of Jesus and Mary, who look benignly down on the suppliant beneath. Prostrate on the pavement which holy knees have worn, and breathing an air perfumed by the prayers of centuries, my mind goes back to former times, and I think of the cowled monks who once bowed in prayer before the same altar, and murmured the same prayers I so love to repeat:

"Their book they read and their beads they told,To human softness dead and cold,And all life's vanity."

I must tell you something of St. Mary's Cathedral, which is the glory of this place. You should see it from our garden, crowning this city built upon a hill, with its towers and pinnacles. It is perfectly majestic. There, on the same spot, before the Incarnation, stood a temple of Venus. Christianity, which always loved to sanctify these high places, made the lascivious Venus yield to the Mother of pure love. Toward the end of the third century, St. Taurin brought a venerated statue of our Lady from Eauze, and erected a chapel here in her honor. It was not till about the year 800 that a cathedral was erected in the same place. It has been four times demolished, and as often rebuilt. In 1793, it was preserved with great difficulty. During that time it served as a prison for many of thenoblesse, and was stripped of many of its most precious ornaments. The holy image of Mary was superseded by the Goddess of Reason, and horses were stabled in its chapels. But one does not love to linger over such profanation.

This cathedral is particularly remarkable for the carvings of the choir and for the fine stained-glass windows of the Renaissance. Wishing to examine it minutely, I obtained permission to visit it at those hours when it is closed—that is, from noon till three o'clock. Accompanied by a servant, I was there precisely at twelve. The Angelus bell pealed forth just as I entered the church, and

"Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssopSprinkles the congregation and scatters blessings upon them."

TheSuisse, who was an old soldier under Napoleon I., and was in the Russian campaign, locked us in, free to wander at will and unremarked in this vast cathedral, with the excellentMonographieby the learned Abbé Canéto in hand. At the very portal we passed over the tomb of an old archbishop, who wished through humility to be buried under the pavement of the principal entrance to the church, that he might be trodden under foot by all men. Perhaps there was something of natural instinct in this choice. I know not whether I should prefer some quiet and shady nook for my grave, or a great thoroughfare like this, with the almost constant ring of human feet above my head. This prelate has lain there about two centuries, "awaiting," as the inscription says, "the resurrection of the dead."

We entered the church beneath the tribune of the organ, a fine instrument—the master-piece of Joyeuse, a famous organ-maker of the time of Louis XIV. On its front panels are beautifully carved,en relief, St. Cecilia and the Royal Harper.

The whole building is over three hundred feet long. Four rows of pillars divide it into three naves and collateral chapels, which are twenty-one in number, extending quite around it, each with paintings, and statues, and altars of marble, and its oaken confessional,

"Where the graveyard in the human heartGives up its dead at the voice of the priest."

The baptismal font, in the first chapel to the left, is of a single block of fine black Belgian marble. One lingers reverentially before it, to think of all the souls that have there been regenerated, and of the holy joy of the guardian angels around it.

The windows are glorious in their effect. Thereon are represented all the principal characters of the Bible, beginning with Adam and Eve; interspersed are the sibyls(Teste David cum sibylla)and saints of the middle ages. The bright sun, streaming through these "storied windows richly dight," revealing in brightest hues "many a prophet, many a saint," casts a rich light of purple and crimson and gold over altar and saint and shrine; not thedimreligious light of the poets, but bright and glorious as the rainbow that spans the Eternal Throne! I could sit in their light for ever. What a beautiful missal, gorgeously illuminated, they form for the common people, and a book ever open, full of the beauty of holiness! I envy those who have worshipped in such a church from infancy, whose minds and tastes have been formed, in part, by its influences, whose earliest religious associations are connected with so much that is beautiful as well as elevating. There must be a certain tone to their piety, as well as to their minds, wanting to those who have only frequented the humbler chapels of the new world. I can never enter the plainest Catholic church without emotion. The very sight of a humble altar surmounted by the rudest cross, goes to my heart; how much more a magnificent church like this, where every thing appeals to the heart, the soul, the imagination!

Over the doors leading to the transepts are the rose-windows.

"Flamboyant with a thousand gorgeous colors,The perfect flower of Gothic loveliness!"

Beyond the transepts is the choir—a church within a church; for it is enclosed by a high wall with a screen and rood-loft in front. Here the canons chant the divine office seven times a day. The stalls in which they sit are fit for princes—each one a marvellous piece of workmanship, like the handiwork of a fairy rather than of man.

The panels with their large figures in relief, the Gothic niches with their statuettes, the desks all covered with carved animals and plants almost in the perfection of nature, the canopy with its hangings, beautiful as lace, are all perfectly wrought in black oak, and surpass all conception. I have heard it said the wood was kept under water twenty years, and the carver was fifty years in completing his work; and you would believe it could you see the effect. I have seen finer churches, in some respects, but no carvings to surpass these. One is never weary of examining every inch of this exquisite choir, so full of perfection is every part. Sacred and profane history, mythological and legendary lore, the fauna and flora, are all mingled in these stalls. There are one hundred and thirteen of them—sixty-seven superior, and forty-six inferior; and three hundred and six statuettes in wonderful little Gothic niches. Each superior stall has its large panel, on which in demi-relief is the image of some saint or sibyl.One of them represents St. Martha of Bethany, with anaspersoirin her hand and theTarasqueat her feet, alluding to the old legend so popular in Provence, of her subduing a monster which ravaged the banks of the Rhone by sprinkling him with holy water. The city of Tarascon commemorates the tradition. A magnificent church built there, under the invocation of St. Martha, was endowed by Louis XI.

At three o'clock the canons came for vespers, after which we went to the tower to see the view and examine the bells, the largest of which is covered with medallions of the apostles and the Blessed Virgin, and with mottoes. It bears the name of Mary.

"These bells have been anointedAnd baptized with holy water."

Perhaps you do not know that in the ceremony of consecrating a bell, the bishop prays that, as the voice of Christ appeased the troubled waters, God would endow the sound of the bell with power to avert the malign influence of the great enemy; that it may possess the power of David's harp, which dispelled the dark cloud from the soul of Saul; and that at its sound hosts of angels may surround the assembled multitudes, preserve their souls from temptation and defend their bodies from all danger. The smaller bells are rung daily for the Angelus and ordinary occasions. The tones of the great Bourdon are reserved for the grand festivals of Christmas, Easter, etc. I was curious to see them, for they are like friends from whom we have had many kind tokens, but have never met. They are always ringing above the priory; and their tones say so many things to our hearts—solemn and funereal, or tender, or joyful. "There is something beautiful in the church-bell," says Douglas Jerrold—"beautiful and hopeful. They talk to the high and low, rich and poor, in the same voice. There is a sound in them that should scare away envy and pride and meanness of all sorts from the heart of man; that should make him look on the world with kind, forgiving eyes; that should make the earth itself seem, to him at least, a holy place. Yes, there is a whole sermon in the very sound of the church-bells, if we only have the ears to understand it." As Longfellow says:

"For the bells themselves are the best of preachers; Their brazen lips are learned teachers. From their pulpits of stone in the upper air, Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw, Shriller than trumpets under the law, Now a sermon and now a prayer. The clamorous hammer is the tongue; This way, that way, beaten and swung, That from mouth of brass, as from mouth of gold, May be taught the Testaments, New and Old: And above it the great cross-beam of wood Representeth the holy rood, Upon which, like the bell, our hopes are hung. And the wheel wherewith it is swayed and rung Is the mind of man, that round and round Sways, and maketh the tongue to sound! And the rope, with its twisted cordage three, Denoteth the scriptural Trinity Of morals, and symbols, and history; And the upward and downward motions show That we touch upon matters high and low: And the constant change and transmutation Of action and of contemplation, Downward, the Scripture brought from on high; Upward, exalted again to the sky; Downward, the literal interpretation, Upward, the vision and mystery!"

In the undercroft of the cathedral reposes, among other saints, the body of St. Léothade. He was of royal blood, being a near relative of Eudes, Duke of Aquitaine, who was of the race of Clotaire II. He was also related to Charles Martel, and to the well-known sylvan saint, Hubert, who was contemporary with St. Léothade, and a native of this part of France. St. Léothade embraced the monastic state early in life, and, after being abbot at Moissac, was called to govern this diocese, which he did for twenty-seven years. In the wars between Charles Martel and Eudes he retired into Burgundy, his native place, where he died at the beginning of the eighth century. His body was reclaimed by the Auscitains.His tomb is all sculptured with the symbols of our Saviour—the fish, wine, etc.

St. Léothade is invoked in various diseases, particularly for epilepsy.

Through the kindness of themère prieureI had the privilege of assisting at the office of Holy Week at St. Mary's Cathedral. I witnessed all those affecting rites from thejubé, or rood-loft, which is reached by a dark, winding stairway in one of the huge pillars. My position was one of seclusion, and yet overlooked both the choir and the nave. To fully appreciate the ceremonies of the church, one must witness them in one of these old churches of the middle ages, to which they seem adapted. The long procession of white-robed clergy, through the forest of columns, with palm branches in their hands; "Hosanna to the son of David!" resounding through the arches; the tapers, rich vestments, the heavenly light streaming through the stained-glass windows, not dimly, but like a very rainbow of hope encircling us all—impress the heart with sentiments of profound devotion.

I was particularly struck by the vivid picture of the Passion given in the gospel of Palm-Sunday, as sung by the choir. One priest chanted the historical parts in a recitative way; a second, the words of our Lord; and a third, the words of the disciples and others. The insolent cries of the multitude, the confident tones of St. Peter, the loud bold tones of Judas, were well reproduced; while the sacred words of Christ were repeated in the clearest, calmest, most subdued and plaintive of accents, that sank into my soul and moved me to tears. That voice seemed to sweep over the sea of surging hearts that filled the church, like the very voice of Jesus calming the tempest on the lake! It rung in my heart for days. It rings there yet, a sermon more powerful than any man could preach. When the priest comes to the words, "and gave up the ghost," the sight of the vast multitude prostrating to the ground is most impressive.

The gospel of the Passion, succeeding the triumphant procession with the palm branches, becomes doubly impressive by the contrast. "Oh! what a contrast," cries St. Bernard, "between 'Tolle, tolle, crucifige eum,' and 'Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini, Hosanna in Excelsis!' What a contrast between 'King of Israel,' and 'We have no king but Caesar!' Between the green branches and the cross! Between the flowers and the thorns! Between taking off their garments to cast before him, and stripping him of his own and casting lots for them!"

The nave was one forest of waving green branches, and the common people seemed to enter into and enjoy the ceremonies very heartily. These grand services give such a vivid idea of the great events of the life of Christ that they must be very beneficial to the people, who come in throngs to witness them; and there are no pews here, with their invidious distinctions, to shut them out. The peasant and the nobleman are brought on a level in that place where alone is to be found true democracy—the Church.

The archbishop presided at these ceremonies, a venerable, austere-looking prelate, who moved about with gravity, always attended by his servant, a pale, cadaverous-looking man in black, with a white cravat, reminding me so forcibly of one of our New England ministers that I never could resist a smile when my eye fell on him, as he obediently followed the dignified prelate.

St. Mary's Cathedral was once one of the richest in France, being endowed by the kings of Arragon, Navarre, and of France, and by the Counts of Fezensac and of Armagnac. In those days the archbishop was a magnate in the land. The Counts of Armagnac paid homage to him, and when he came to take possession of his see, the Baron de Montaut, with bared head and one limb bare, awaited him on foot at the gates of the city, took his mule by the bridle, and so conducted him to the cathedral. He was then, as he styles himself now, primate of Novempopulania and of the two Navarres.

One of the old archbishops, of the race of the Counts d'Aure, accompanied Richard the Lion-hearted to Palestine in 1190, and died there the next year.

On Holy Thursday all business was suspended. The streets were crowded with people going to visit the different churches where the Blessed Sacrament was exposed. I visited fourteen churches and chapels. At every turn in the streets were boys erecting little altars and chapels by the way-side, and importuning the passer-by for asouto aid in fitting them up. Of course, I saw the greater part of the city, which is picturesque, as seen from the valley, but rather ugly when one has mounted the weary flights of steps, and gained its heart. The streets are mostly narrow and treeless, but there are two promenades with fine old trees, and the public buildings are a credit to the place. There is agrandandpetit séminiairehere, a lyceum, normal school, two boarding-schools, besides several day and free schools; so there is no lack for means of instruction.

The famous Nostradamus, renowned for hisCenturies prophétiques, was once a professor in this place. And St. Francis Regis was regent of the Jesuits' college which was here before the suppression of that order in the last century.

On Good-Friday I went to the chapel of the Carmelites, for the Three Hours' Agony. Daylight was wholly excluded. The altar was fitted up like a Calvary, with a large crucifix on the summit. Tall wax candles burned around it as round a bier. The rest of the chapel was in darkness. The black grating that separates the chancel from the choir of the nuns was so closely curtained that they were wholly invisible. The agony was a paraphrase of the last words of our Saviour upon the cross, making it like seven discourses, or rather meditations. At the end of each part all knelt, while the preacher made an extempore prayer, and then rose a sweet solemn wail of music. One by one the lights around the Calvary were extinguished—a deeper gloom shrouding the chapel and settling on our hearts. At last, only one light was left, emblematic of Him who came to give light to the world. That, too, went out at three o'clock, leaving us in utter darkness. Then the preacher cried:Jesus is dying!—Jesus is dead!All fell on their knees. The most profound silence reigned. When sufficiently recovered from the awe and solemnity which pervaded every heart, all prostrated themselves, and softly left the church. The effect was indescribable. Nothing could so powerfully incite the heart to repentance for sin, and unite it to the sufferings and death of Christ, as this three hours' meditation on his agony upon the cross.

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