A CHILD-BEGGAR.

TO BE CONTINUED.

A CHILD-BEGGAR.

Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt seeHow he persists to knock and wait for thee!—Lope de Vega,Longfellow’s Translation.

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-nightA 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 castsCold glitter on the snow;With icy fingers ‘mid the boughsThe wind wakes sounds of woe;Unclouded is the light of starsFilling 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 heartI pray thee me enfold.Weary I wander forth to-night,I knock at many a door,I call, but seems my voice too weakTo rise the bleak wind o’er.“A little exile here I stand,Begging an easy grace—Beside thy hearth this biting nightA 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 loveIn that soft, childish tone,Who pleads a beggar at thy gate,Whose right is thy heart’s throne.Open, dear heart, and do not fear;With him can enter inNot any ill—nay, from his handThou shalt all blessing win.Though heaped thy house with treasure rareAh! do not Love deny;He may not seek thee any more,Scorning to-night his cry.And do not fear that thou shalt findA little rosy elfWith laughing eyes that look through tearsThat pity but himself.No fretful, pouting lips are hisWho waiteth at thy gate;No querulous tone shall dim his voiceWho knocks so long and late;His are no folded rainbow wingsWherewith he may ensureHis safe retreat when his weak faithNo longer shall endure.He bears no burden of barbed shafts;A cross his quiver is,And of a crown of thorns his browBeareth the cruelties;His feet are pierced with wounds whose stainLies on the moonlit snow,And in his tender baby handsTwin blood-red roses blow.Beneath the cross and crowning thornInfinite 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 touchShall joy undreamed create.These infant lips shall bless thy tears,This tender voice give peace;The hand that begs thy grace to-nightShall sign thy woe’s release.He asks so little, gives so much,And sigheth to give moreWho, patient in the wintry world,Stands knocking at thy door.Hasten, my soul, let Him not wait;Fling thy heart’s portal wide;Bid thou this weary little ChildFore’er with thee abide.Kneel thou a beggar at his feetWho begs to-night of thee;No alteration knows this LoveBorn of eternity.

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 castsCold glitter on the snow;With icy fingers ‘mid the boughsThe wind wakes sounds of woe;Unclouded is the light of starsFilling the frosty blue;Yet, heedless of the winter chill,A childish voice doth sue:

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 heartI pray thee me enfold.Weary I wander forth to-night,I knock at many a door,I call, but seems my voice too weakTo rise the bleak wind o’er.

“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 nightA 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.

“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 loveIn that soft, childish tone,Who pleads a beggar at thy gate,Whose right is thy heart’s throne.Open, dear heart, and do not fear;With him can enter inNot any ill—nay, from his handThou shalt all blessing win.

’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.

Open, 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 rareAh! do not Love deny;He may not seek thee any more,Scorning to-night his cry.And do not fear that thou shalt findA little rosy elfWith laughing eyes that look through tearsThat pity but himself.

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 hisWho waiteth at thy gate;No querulous tone shall dim his voiceWho knocks so long and late;His are no folded rainbow wingsWherewith he may ensureHis safe retreat when his weak faithNo longer shall endure.

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 browBeareth the cruelties;His feet are pierced with wounds whose stainLies on the moonlit snow,And in his tender baby handsTwin blood-red roses blow.

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 thornInfinite 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 touchShall joy undreamed create.

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-nightShall sign thy woe’s release.He asks so little, gives so much,And sigheth to give moreWho, patient in the wintry world,Stands knocking at thy door.

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.

Hasten, my soul, let Him not wait;Fling thy heart’s portal wide;Bid thou this weary little ChildFore’er with thee abide.Kneel thou a beggar at his feetWho begs to-night of thee;No alteration knows this LoveBorn of eternity.

Hasten, 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.

There like a jewel in the Midland SeaFar off discerned, the isle of Lérins hangsUpon 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 livedAnd taught, and, in the simple panoplyOf Catholic tradition armed, struck downThe heretics.—Faber.

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.

The 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 goodWho gave their days to heaven”;

“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 arôlein the religious history of Gaul.These 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 hadchosen, 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 everymonth. 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, theCommonitorium. 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, PatriqueRité quingenti roseo dicâruntSanguine testes”

“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.

The numerous trees that formerly grew on St. Honorat gave it the poetic title of theaigrette 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 infestedthe 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, withoutfinding 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 aredébrisof 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 afew 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,and 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 oneof 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 planaMiserit ad cœlum montes!”

“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,when 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 thisinteresting 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,and 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 theMare Magnumof 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,the 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 theBaoumo 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. Porcaireand 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 theCaranquo 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 preservedat 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 ascoming 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 sourçoDoou benhurux Sant Jaousé—

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 theChemin de Louis Quartorze. He hung hiscordon bleuon 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 importanttransactions 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 withDeo gratiason her lips.

An old ballad tells how, after her death, St. Rossoline delivered her brother, Helion de Villeneuve, a crusader, who had been taken prisonerby 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’estimoPer leis pélérins dé Rians—Seis campanos souanoun toutosPer faire la proucession.”

“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

“AllegressoDins leis ilos dé Lérins.”

“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 theglourious 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 theherbo doou par doun—the herb of the Pardon or Indulgence. This is thecineraire maritime, common on the shores of the isle, which has hoary, pinnatifidleaves 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 amongtheRominæ. 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,an 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 thebaume, 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 ofthis saint of Lérins with the Provençal wordm’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 theCouche 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 CapRoux. 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 ofAra-luci—altar of the sacred wood—whence the name of Arluc. This consecrated grove was cut down by St. Nazaire, abbot of Lérins,who 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, underthe 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.

Arluc 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 aromérage, or pilgrimage, to the chapel that took his name at Arluc, on the 23d of July, the festival of St. Cassian.

When the Revolution arrived the republicans wished to sell the mount, and two hundred soldiers were sent to strip the chapel. The number was none too large, for at the news the people of Cannes sounded the tocsin and went in crowds to the rescue. The very women were armed. One in particular aimed her reaping-hook at the neck of the leader. They bore triumphantly away the relics and ornaments, but the chapel and land were sold some time after to nine men belonging to Cannes. St. Cassian, or Arluc, is still crowned with oaks, as in the time when Venus held sway there, though Bonaparte, when in the vicinity, had many of them cut down.

The monastery of Arluc gave its name to a village on the sea-shore at the mouth of the Siagne. This stream, in which the monks of Lérinsonce had the sole right to fish, derives its name from the Provençal wordsaignosorsiagnos, given to the cat-tails that grow so abundantly on its banks. On the Siagne is the hamlet of Mandelieu, on land which once belonged to St. Consortia, the daughter of St. Eucher. She gave her fortune to works of charity, and founded here a hospital under the invocation of St. Stephen. And there is a cape on the coast, near La Napoule, called Theoule, from another daughter of St. Eucher, named Tullia. When St. Eucher abandoned the world and retired to Lérins he took with him his two sons, Véran and Salonius, leaving his wife, Galla, and her two daughters on his domains near La Napoule, where Tullia, who died young, was buried.

Such are the memories associated with the isles of Lérins, for many of which we are indebted to the interesting work by M. l’Abbé Alliez. We made a second visit to St. Honorat before leaving Cannes, to take a farewell look at the old donjon on the shore, the holy palm in the cloister, and the ruined chapels. When we left the isle several of the white-robed monks accompanied us to the shore, and, on looking back from our swiftly-receding boat, we saw two of them still standing at the foot of a huge cross among the sad pines....

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