“Yes,” she cried, raising her hands towards heaven, “I call upon God to witness the truth of what I say—I am Queen Catherine! You are astonished to see me here at this hour, and in this disguise. Know, then, that I am a prisoner in my own palace; my cruel husband would have prevented me from coming to you. They tell me you are sent to sit in judgment on my case. Surely, then, you should be made acquainted with my bitter woes and grievances. Lend not your aid to the cause of injustice and wrong, but be the strength of the weak, the defence of the innocent. A stranger in this country, I have no friends; fear of the king drives them all from me. I cannot doubt it—no, you will not refuse to hear my appeal. You will defend the cause of an injured mother and her helpless children. What! would you be willing to condemn me without first hearing my cause—I, the daughter of kings? Have I been induced to marry Henry of Lancaster to enjoy the honors of royalty, when all such honors belong to me by my birthright? Catherine of Aragon has never been unfaithful to her husband; but to-day, misled by a criminal passion, he wishes to place upon the throne of England a shameless woman, to deny his own blood, and brand his own children with the stigma of illegitimacy! Yes, I solemnly declare to you that nothing can shake my resolution or divert me from my purpose! Strong in my innocence and in the justice of my cause, I will appeal to the whole world—aye, even to God himself!”
The cardinal stood motionless, regarding Catherine with reverence, as an expression of haughty indignation lighted up her noble features. He was struck with admiration at her courage and filled with compassion for her woes.
“No, madam,” he replied, “I am not to be your judge. I know that it is but too true that you are surrounded by enemies. But let me assure you that in me, at least, you will not find another. I shall esteem myself most happy if, by my counsel or influence, I may be of service to your cause, and it is from the depths of my heart that I beg you to rely upon this assurance.”
Catherine would have thanked him, but a noise was that moment heard of the ushers throwing the doors violently open and announcing, in a loud voice, “His Eminence Cardinal Wolsey!”
“Merciful heaven!” cried Catherine, “must this odious man pursue me for ever?” She hurriedly lowered her veil, and took her place at the left of the door, and the moment he entered passed out behind him. Wolsey glanced at her sharply, the appearance of a woman arousing instantly a suspicion in his mind, but, being compelled to respond with politeness to the legate’s salutations, he had no time to scrutinize, and Catherine escaped without being recognized.
Wolsey was passionately fond of pomp and pageant. The principal positions in his house were filled by barons and chevaliers. Among these attendants were numbered the sons of some of the most distinguished families, who, under his protection and by the aid of his all-powerful patronage and influence, aspired to civil or military preferment.
On this occasion, he considered it necessary to make an unusual display of luxurious magnificence. It was with great difficulty and trepidation that the queen threaded her way through the crowd of prelates, noblemen, and young gentlemen who awaited in the ante-chambers the honor of being presented by the king’s favorite to the cardinal-legate.
The courtyard was filled with their brilliant equipages, conspicuous among which were observed a great number of mules, richly caparisoned, and carrying on their backs immense chests, covered with crimson cloth, trimmed with fringe and embroidered with gold.
A crowd of idle valets were engaged in conversation at the foot of the stairs. The queen, in passing them, attracted their attention, exciting their ridicule and coarse gibes, and she heard them also indulge in the most insolent conjectures regarding her.
“Who is that woman?” said one. “See how dirty she is.” “She looks like a beggar, indeed,” cried another, addressing himself to one of the new-comers engaged to attend the legate. “Your master receives strange visitors; we, on the contrary, have nothing to do with people like that, except quickly to show them the door.”
“Ha! ha! you will have your hands full,” exclaimed the most insolent of the crowd, “if your master gives audience to such rabble as that.” Emboldened by these remarks, one of the porters approached the queen, and, rudely pushing her, exclaimed with an oath: “Well, beldame, what brought you here? Take yourself off quickly. My lord is rich, but his crowns were not made for such as you.” These words excited the loudest applause from the whole crowd, who clapped their hands and cheered vociferously. Catherine trembled with mortification.
“It is thus,” she mentally exclaimed, “that the poor are received in the palaces of the rich. And I myself have probably more than once, without knowing it, permitted them to sigh in vain at the gates of my own palace—mothers weeping for their children, or men, old and helpless, making a last appeal for assistance.”
The queen, entirely absorbed in these reflections, together with the impression made upon her by the appearance of the venerable legate, the sudden apparition of Wolsey, the snares that had been laid for her, and the temptations with which they had surrounded her, mechanically followed Leonora, to whom the fear that her mistress might be pursued and arrested seemed to have given wings.
“Leonora,” at length cried the queen, “I feel that I can go no farther. Stop, and let us rest for a moment; you walk too quickly.” Exhausted with fatigue, she seated herself on a rock by the roadside.
She had scarcely rested a moment when a magnificent carriage passed. The silken curtains were drawn back, and the flaming torches, carried by couriers, who surrounded the carriage, completely illuminated the interior. Seated in this princely equipage was a young girl, brilliant in her youthful beauty and the splendor of her elegant dress and jewelled adornings. At a glance, Catherine recognized Anne Boleyn, who was returning from a grand entertainment given her by the Lord Mayor of London.
She passed like the light; the carriage rapidly whirling through the mud and water, that flew from the wheels and covered anew the already soiled garments of the hapless queen.
Catherine, completely overcome by painful emotions, felt as though she were dying.
“Leonora, listen!” she said in a faint voice, scarcely audible—“Leonora, come near me—give me your hand; I feel that I am dying! You will carry to my daughter my last benediction!”
She sought in the darkness the hand of Leonora; the film of death seemed gathering over her eyes; she did not speak, her head sank on her shoulder, and poor Leonora thought the queen had ceased to breathe. She at first held her in her arms; but at length, overcome by fatigue, she sank upon the earth as she vainly endeavored to revive her by breathing into her mouth her own life-breath. But seeing all her efforts to restore animation useless, she came to the terrible conclusion that Catherine was indeed dead.
“My dear mistress,” she cried wildly, wringing her hands, “my good mistress is dead! What will become of me? It is my fault: I should have prevented her from going. Ah! how miserable I am!” And her tears and cries redoubled. At length she heard in the distance the sound of approaching footsteps, and was soon able to distinguish a litter, borne by a number of men. “Help!” she cried, her hopes reviving at the sight, and very soon they were near her—“help! come to my assistance; my mistress is dying!” Seeing two women, one lying on the ground supported in the arms of another, who appeared half-deranged, the person who occupied the litter commanded the men to stop immediately, and he quickly alighted. It was the king! He also was going to London to see the legate; to prevent his anxious haste from being known, and commented on, he had adopted this secret conveyance. When she saw him, Leonora was paralyzed with apprehension and alarm. The king instantly recognized the queen and the unhappy Leonora. In a furious voice, he demanded what she was doing there and where she had been. But in vain she endeavored to reply—her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth—she was unable to articulate a word. Transported with rage at her silence, and by what he suspected, he immediately had the queen placed in the litter, and ordering the men to walk slowly, he followed them on foot to the palace.
Catherine was carried to her own apartment, and soon restored to consciousness; but on opening her eyes she looked around, vainly hoping to behold her faithful Leonora. She never saw her again! She had been taken away, and the punishment that was meted out to her, or the fate that befel the unfortunate girl, was for ever involved in mystery.
While discord filled the royal palace with perplexity and sorrow a statesman, simple and peaceful, awaited, with happiness mingled with impatience, the arrival of a friend. In his house, all around him seemed possessed of redoubled activity. The family table was more elegantly spread, fresh flowers decorated all the apartments, the children ran to and fro in the very excess of their joy and delight, until at length, in every direction, the glad announcement was heard, “He has come! he has come!” The entire family eagerly descended to the court-yard to meet and welcome the visitor, and Sir Thomas, with feelings of inexpressible joy, folded in his embrace the Bishop of Rochester, the wise and virtuous Fisher, whom he loved with the purest and tenderest sentiments of friendship.
“At last you are here,” he exclaimed; “how happy I am to see you once more!”
While the good bishop was ascending the stairs, surrounded by a troop of Sir Thomas’ youngest children, Margaret, the eldest daughter, came forward and saluted him, accompanied by Lady More, her step-mother, and young William Roper, her affianced husband. They all entered the drawing-room together, and, after engaging a short time in general conversation, Sir Thomas bade the children retire, that he might converse with more freedom.
“My dear friend,” he exclaimed, taking the bishop’s hand again in his own, “I cannot express the joy I feel at your return. I have been so long deprived of your presence, and I have so many things to say to you. But my heart is too full at this moment to permit me to express all I feel or would say! But why have you not answered my letters?”
“Your letters!” replied the bishop. “Why, it has been more than a month since I received one from you.”
“How can that be possible unless they have been intercepted?” replied More. “The king every day becomes more and more suspicious. If this continues, it will soon be considered high treason for a man to think.”
“I cannot tell what has become of your letters. I only know I have not received them, and it has caused me a great deal of anxiety and apprehension. But my friend, since I find you full of life and health, I am quite satisfied and happy. Now, let me hear all that has happened at court; but let me begin by first telling you that the king has sent me, through Cardinal Wolsey, a document he has written on the subject of divorce, asking my opinion and advice. I have answered him with all frankness and candor, expressing myself strongly against his views. Certainly, there is nothing more absurd than the idea of the king’s wishing to repudiate, after so many years of marriage, a princess so virtuous and irreproachable, to whom he can find no other objection than that she was betrothed to his brother, Prince Arthur. Besides, a dispensation was obtained on that account at the time of his marriage, therefore it would seem his conscience ought to be perfectly satisfied.”
“Yes, yes, his conscience should be entirely at rest,” replied Sir Thomas. “And if he sincerely believes the marriage has been void until this time, why does he not make the effort to have it rendered legitimate, instead of endeavoring to annul it entirely? It is because he wishes to marry one of the queen’s ladies—the young Anne Boleyn!”
“Oh! horrible,” cried Fisher. “Are you sure, my friend, of what you say? Gracious heaven! If I had only suspected it! But I assure you I have had entire confidence in him. I have, therefore, examined the subject conscientiously and with the greatest possible diligence before giving him my reply. Had I suspected any such scheme as this, I should never have had the patience to consider the arguments he has presented with so much duplicity.”
“Well, my dear Fisher,” replied Sir Thomas, “such is the sad truth, and such are the ‘scruples’ that disturb the tender conscience of the king. To repudiate the queen and the Princess Mary, his daughter, is his sole aim, his only desire. I also have received an order to read and give my opinion on the divorce question; but I have asked to be excused, on the ground of my very limited knowledge of theological matters. Moreover, all these debates and hypocritical petitions for advice are entirely absurd and unnecessary. Cardinal Campeggio, the Pope’s legate, has already arrived from Rome, and the queen will appear before a court composed of the legate and Wolsey, together with several other cardinals.”
“The queen brought to trial!” cried the Bishop of Rochester. “The queen arraigned to hear her honor and her rank disputed? What a shame upon England! Who will speak for her? I would give my life to be called to defend her! But how is it that Wolsey—the all-powerful Wolsey—has not diverted the king from his unworthy purpose?”
“He is said to have tried; but he stands in awe of the king. You know an ambitious man never opposes him to whom he owes his power. Nevertheless,” added More, “I cannot believe he will dare to pronounce the Princess Mary illegitimate. For, all laws aside, supposing even that the marriage were annulled, the good faith in which it was contracted invests her birth with an inalienable right.”
“I hope it may be so,” said Fisher; “but what immense calamities this question will bring on our unhappy country!”
“I fear so, my friend,” replied More. “At present, the people are pledged to the queen’s cause; it could not be otherwise, she is so much beloved and esteemed; and they declare, if the king does succeed in repudiating Catherine, that he will find it impossible to deprive his daughter of her right to reign over them.”
“And Wolsey,” replied the bishop thoughtfully, “will be called to sit in judgment on his sovereign! He will be against her! And this Campeggio—what says he in the matter?”
“We believe,” replied More, “that he will sustain the queen; he seems to possess great firmness and integrity of character. His first interview with the king gave us great hopes. Henry has overwhelmed him with protestations of his entire submission, but all his artifices have been frustrated by the discernment and prudence of the Italian cardinal. His impenetrable silence on the subject of his own personal opinions has plunged the king into despair. Since that day he has honored him with incessant visits, has offered him the rich bishopric of Durham, and worked unceasingly to corrupt his integrity by promises and flattery.”
“How keenly the queen must suffer,” said Fisher—“she that I saw, at the time of her arrival in the kingdom, so young, so beautiful, and so idolized by Henry!”
“Alas! I think so,” said More. “For some time I have found it impossible to approach her. However, she appears in public as usual, always gracious and affable; there is no change in her appearance. The queen is truly a most admirable woman. During your absence, an epidemic made its appearance called the ‘sweating sickness,’ which made terrible ravages. Wolsey fled from his palace, several noblemen belonging to his household having died very suddenly of the disease. The king was greatly alarmed; he never left the queen for a moment, and united with her in constant prayers to God, firmly believing that her petitions would avail to stay the pestilence. He immediately despatched Anne Boleyn to her father, where she was attacked by the disease, and truly we would have felt no regret at her loss if the Lord in taking her had only deigned to show mercy to her soul. At one time we believed the king had entirely reformed, but, alas! the danger had scarcely passed when he recalled Anne Boleyn, and is again estranged from the queen.”
“Death gives us terrible lessons,” replied the Bishop of Rochester. “In his presence we judge of all things wisely. The illusions of time are dissipated, to give place to the realities of eternity!” As the bishop said these words, several persons who had called to see Sir Thomas entered the room. Conspicuous among them was Cromwell, the protégé of Wolsey. This man was both false and sinister, who made use of any means that led to the acquisition of fortune. He possessed the arts of intrigue and flattery. To a profound dissimulation he added an air of politeness and a knowledge of the world that, in general, caused him to be well received in society. A close scrutiny of his character, however, made it evident that there was something in the depths of this man’s soul rendering him unworthy of any confidence. To him, vice and virtue were words devoid of any meaning. When he found a man was no longer necessary to his designs, or that he could not in some manner use him, he made no further effort to conciliate or retain his friendship. He saluted Sir Thomas and the Bishop of Rochester with a quiet ease, and seated himself beside young Cranmer—“with whom I am very well acquainted,” he remarked. For Cromwell, like all other intriguers, assumed intimacy with all the world.
Scarcely had he uttered the words when a Mr. Williamson was ushered in, who had returned to London a few days before, after a long absence on the Continent.
“And so you are back, Mr. Williamson,” cried More, taking his hand. “You are just from Germany, I believe? Well, do tell us how matters stand in that country. It seems, from what we hear, everything is in commotion there.”
“Your supposition is quite correct, sir,” replied Williamson in a half-serious, half-jesting manner. “The emperor is furious against our king, and has sent ambassadors to Rome to oppose the divorce. But the empire is greatly disturbed by religious dissensions, therefore I doubt if he will be able to give the subject as much attention as he desires. New reformers are every day springing up. The foremost now is Bacer, a Dominican monk; then comes Zwingle, the curate of Zürich—where he endeavored to abolish the Mass, to the great scandal of the people—and there is still another, named Œcolampadius, who has joined Zwingle. But strangest of all is that these reformers, among themselves, agree in nothing. The one admits a dogma, the other rejects it; to-day they think this, to-morrow that. Every day some new doctrine is promulgated. Luther has a horror of Zwingle, and they mutually damn each other. The devil is no longer able to recognize himself. They occasionally try to patch up a reconciliation, and agree altogether to believe a certain doctrine, but the compact is scarcely drawn up before the whole affair is upset again.”
Cranmer, while listening to this discourse, moved uneasily in his chair, until at length, unable to restrain himself longer, he interrupted Williamson in a sharp, cutting manner that he endeavored to soften.
“In truth, sir, you speak very slightingly of these learned and distinguished men. And only, it seems, because they demand a reform in the morals of the clergy, and preach against and denounce the abuses of the church in the matter of indulgences.”
“Beautiful reformers!” cried Williamson. “They protest to-day against an abuse which they alone have felt as such, and that but for a very short time. And permit me to insist on your observing a fact, which it is by no means necessary or expedient to forget, that this quarrel originated in the displeasure felt by Luther because it was not to his own order, but to that of the Dominicans, to whom the distribution of indulgences was entrusted.”
“That may be possible, sir,” interrupted Cranmer, “but at least you will not deny that the immorality of the German clergy imperatively demanded a thorough reformation.”
“It is quite possible, my dear sir, that I may not be ready at once to agree with you in your opinions. But if the German church has become relaxed in morals, it is the fault of those only who before their elevation to the holy office had not, as they were bound to have, the true spirit of their vocation. But I pray you, on this point of morals, it will not do to boast of the severity of these new apostles. The disciples of Christ left their wives, when called to ‘go into all the world and preach the Gospel,’ but these men begin by taking wives. Luther has married a young and beautiful nun, an act that has almost driven his followers to despair, and scandalized and excited the ridicule of the whole city. As to Bucer, he is already married to his second wife!”
“What!” cried the bishop, “these men marry! Marry—in the face of the holy church! Do they forget the solemn vows of chastity they have made?—for they are all either priests or monks.”
“Their vows! Oh! they retract their vows, they say. These ‘vows’ are what they call abuses; and the priests of this so severely reformed church will hereafter enjoy the inestimable privilege of marrying.”
Whilst this conversation had been going on, Sir Thomas kept his eyes closely fixed on Cranmer, trying to discover, from the expression of his pale, meagre face, the impression made on him by the conversation. He was well convinced that latterly Cranmer, although he had already taken orders, maintained the new doctrines with all the influence he possessed. And the reason why he had so thoroughly espoused them was because of a violent passion conceived for the daughter of Osiander, one of the chief reformers.
Born of a poor and obscure family, he had embraced the ecclesiastical state entirely from motives of interest and ambition, and without the slightest vocation, his sole aim being to advance his own interests and fortunes by every possible means, and he had already succeeded in ingratiating himself with the Earl of Wiltshire, who, together with all the family of Anne Boleyn, were his devoted patrons and friends. It was by these means that he was afterwards elevated to the archiepiscopal see of Canterbury, where we will find him servilely devoting himself to the interests of Henry VIII., and at last dying the death of a traitor.
Influenced by such motives, Cranmer warmly defended the new doctrines, bringing forward every available argument, and ended by declaring he thought it infinitely better that the priests should be allowed to marry than be exposed to commit sin.
“Nothing obliges them to commit sin,” cried the Bishop of Rochester, who was no longer able to maintain silence. “On the contrary, sir, every law and regulation of the discipline and canons of the church tends to inspire and promote the most immaculate purity of morals. These rules may seem hard to those who have embraced the ecclesiastical state from motives of pride and an ambitious self-interest, and without having received from God the graces necessary for the performance of the duties of so exalted and holy a ministry. This is why we so often have to grieve over the misconduct of so many of the clergy. But if they complain of their condition now, what will it be when they have wives and families to increase their cares and add to their responsibilities? The priest!” continued the bishop, seeming to penetrate the very depths of Cranmer’s narrow, contracted soul, “have you ever reflected upon the sublimity of his vocation? The priest is the father of the orphan, the brother of the poor, the consoler of the dying, the spiritual support of the criminal on the scaffold, the merciful judge of the assassin in his dungeon. Say, do you not think the entire human race a family sufficiently large, its duties sufficiently extended, its responsibilities, wants, and cares sufficiently arduous and pressing? How could a priest do more, when his duty now requires him to devote, and give himself entirely to, each and every one of the human family? No; a priest is a man who has made a solemn vow to become an angel. If he does not intend to fulfil that vow, then let him never pronounce it!”
“O Rochester!” cried Sir Thomas More, greatly moved, “how I delight to hear you express yourself in this manner!”
And Sir Thomas spoke with all sincerity, for the bishop, without being conscious of it, had faithfully described his own life and character, and those who knew and loved him found no difficulty in recognizing the portrait.
As Sir Thomas spoke, the door again opened, and all arose respectfully on seeing the Duke of Norfolk appear—that valiant captain, to whom England was indebted for her victory gained on the field of Flodden. He was accompanied by the youngest and best-beloved of his sons, the young Henry, Earl of Surrey. Even at his very tender age, the artless simplicity and graceful manners of this beautiful child commanded the admiration of all, while his brilliant intellect and lively imagination announced him as the future favorite and cherished poet of the age.
Alas! how rapidly fled those golden years of peace and happiness. Later, and Norfolk, this proud father, so happy in being the parent of such a son, lived to behold the head of that noble boy fall upon the scaffold! The crime of which Henry VIII. will accuse him will be that of having united his arms with those of Edward the Confessor, whose royal blood mingled with that which flowed in his own veins.
Sir Thomas approached the duke and saluted him with great deference. The Bishop of Rochester insisted on resigning him his chair, but the duke declined, and seated himself in the midst of the company.
“I was not aware,” said he, turning graciously towards the bishop, “that Sir Thomas was enjoying such good company. I congratulate myself on the return of my Lord of Rochester. He will listen, I am sure, with lively interest to the recital I have come to make; for I must inform you, gentlemen, I am just from Blackfriars, where the king summoned me this morning in great haste, to assist, with some of the highest dignitaries of the kingdom, at the examination of the queen before the assembly of cardinals.”
He had scarcely uttered these words when an expression of profound amazement overspread the features of all present. More was by no means the least affected.
“The queen!” he cried. “Has she then appeared in person? And so unexpectedly and rudely summoned! They have done this in order that she might not be prepared with her defence!”
“I know not,” replied the duke; “but I shall never be able to forget the sad and imposing scene. When we entered, the cardinals and the two legates were seated on a platform covered with purple cloth; the king seated at their right. We were arranged behind his chair in perfect silence. Very soon the queen entered, dressed in the deepest mourning. She took her seat on the left of the platform, facing the king. When the king’s name was called he arose, and remained standing and in silence. But when the queen was in her turn summoned, she arose, and replied, with great dignity, that she boldly protested against her judges for three important reasons: first, because she was a stranger; secondly, because they were all in possession of royal benefices, which had been bestowed on them by her adversary; and, thirdly, that she had grave and all-important reasons for believing that she would not obtain justice from a tribunal so constituted. She added that she had already appealed to the Pope, and would not submit to the judgment of this court. Having said these words, she stood in silence, but when she heard them declare her appeal should not be submitted to the Pope, she passed before the cardinals, and, walking proudly across the entire hall, she threw herself at the feet of the king.
“It would be impossible,” continued Norfolk, “to describe the emotion excited by this movement.
“‘Sire,’ she cried, with a respectful but firm and decided tone, ‘I beg you to regard me with compassion. Pity me as a woman, as a stranger without friends on whom I can rely, without a single disinterested adviser to whom I can turn for counsel! I call upon God to witness,’ she continued, raising her expressive eyes towards heaven, ‘that I have always been to you a loyal, faithful wife, and have made it my constant duty to conform in all things to your will; that I have loved those whom you have loved, whether I knew them to be my enemies or my friends. For many years I have been your wife; I am the mother of your children. God knows, when I married you, I was an unsullied virgin, and since that time I have never brought reproach on the sanctity of my marriage vows. Your own conscience bears witness to the truth of what I say. If you can find a single fault with which to reproach me, then will I pledge you my word to bow my head in shame, and at once leave your presence; but, if not, I pray you in God’s holy name to render me justice.’
“While she was speaking, a low murmur of approbation was heard throughout the assembly, followed by a long, unbroken silence. The king grew deadly pale, but made no reply to the queen, who arose, and was leaving the hall, when Henry made a signal to the Duke of Suffolk to detain her. He followed her, and made every effort to induce her to return, but in vain. Turning haughtily round, she said, in a tone sufficiently distinct to be heard by the entire assembly:
“‘Go, tell the king, your master, that until this hour I have never disobeyed him, and that I regret being compelled to do so now.’
“Saying these words, she immediately turned and left the hall, followed by her ladies in waiting.
“Her refusal to remain longer in the presence of her judges, and the touching, unstudied eloquence of the appeal she had made, cast the tribunal into a state of great embarrassment, and the honorable judges seemed to wish most heartily they had some one else to decide for them; when suddenly the king arose, and, turning haughtily towards them, spoke:
“‘Sirs,’ he said, ‘most cheerfully and with perfect confidence do I present my testimony, bearing witness to the spotless virtue and unsullied integrity of the queen. Her character, her conduct, in every particular, has been above reproach. But it is impossible for me to live in the state of constant anxiety this union causes me to suffer. My conscience keeps me in continual dread because of having married this woman, who was the betrothed wife of my own brother. I will use no dissimulation, my lords; I know very well that many of you believe I have been persuaded by the Cardinal of York to make this appeal for a divorce. But I declare in your presence this day, this is an entirely false impression, and that, on the contrary, the cardinal has earnestly contended against the scruples which have disturbed my soul. But, I declare, against my own will, and in spite of all my regrets, his opinions have not been able to restore to me the tranquillity of a heart without reproach. I have, in consequence, found it necessary to confer again with the Bishop of Tarbes, who has, unhappily, only confirmed the fears I already entertain. I have consulted my confessor and many other prelates, who have all advised me to submit this question to the tribunal of our Holy Father, the Sovereign Pontiff. To this end, my lords, you have been invested by him with his own supreme authority and spiritual power. I will listen to you as I would listen to him—that is to say, with the most entire submission. I wish, however, to remind you again that my duty towards my subjects requires me to prevent whatever might have the effect in the future of disturbing their tranquillity; and, unfortunately, I have but too strong reasons for fearing that, at some future day, the legitimacy of the right of the Princess Mary to the throne may be disputed. It is with entire confidence that I await your solution of a question so important to the happiness of my subjects and the peace of my kingdom. I have no doubt that you will be able to remove all the obstacles placed in my way.’
“Saying these words, the king retired, and started instantly for his palace at Greenwich. The noblemen generally followed him, but I remained to witness the end of what proved to be a tumultuous and stormy debate. Nevertheless, after a long discussion, they decided to go on with the investigation, to hear the advocates of the queen, and continue the proceedings in spite of her protest.”
“Who is the queen’s advocate?” demanded the Bishop of Rochester.
“He has not yet been appointed,” replied Norfolk. “It seems to me it would only be just to let the queen select her own counsel.”
“But she will refuse, without a doubt,” replied Cromwell, “after the manner she has adopted to defend herself.”
They continued to converse for a long time on this subject, which filled with anxious apprehension the heart of Sir Thomas, as well as that of his faithful friend, the good Bishop of Rochester.
TO BE CONTINUED.
The Landes—that long, desolate tract on the western coast of France between the Gironde and the Adour, with its vast forests of melancholy pines, its lone moors and solitary deserts, its broad marshes, and its dunes of sand that creep relentlessly on as if they had life—appeal wonderfully to the imagination, that folle du logis, as Montaigne calls it, but which, in spite of him, we love to feed. One may travel for hours through these vast steppes covered with heather without discovering the smoke of a single chimney, or anything to relieve the monotonous horizon, unless a long line of low sand-hills that look like billows swayed to and fro in the wind; or some low tree standing out against the cloudless heavens, perhaps half buried in the treacherous sands; or a gaunt peasant, the very silhouette of a man, on his stilts, “five feet above contradiction,” like Voltaire’s preacher, perhaps with his knitting-work in his hands, or a distaff under his arm, as if fresh from the feet of Omphale, driving his flock before him—all birds of one feather, or sheep of one wool; for he is clad in a shaggy sheepskin coat, and looks as if he needed shearing as much as any of them. Or perhaps this Knight of the Sable Fleece—for the sheep of the Landes are mostly black—is on one of the small, light horses peculiar to the region, said to have an infusion of Arabian blood—thanks to the Saracen invaders—which are well adapted to picking their way over quaking bogs and moving sands, but unfortunately are fast degenerating from lack of care in maintaining the purity of the breed.
During the winter season these extensive heaths are converted by the prolonged rains into immense marshes, as the impermeable alios within six inches of the surface prevents the absorption of moisture. The peasant is then obliged to shut himself up with his beasts in his low, damp cottage, with peat for his fuel, a pine torch for his candle, brackish water relieved by a dash of vinegar for drink, meagre broth, corn bread, and perhaps salt fish for his dinner. Whole generations are said to live under one roof in the Landes, so thoroughly are the people imbued with the patriarchal spirit. Woman has her rights here—at least in the house. The old dauna (from domina, perhaps) rules the little kingdom with a high hand, including her sons and her sons’ wives down to the remotest generation, with undisputed sway. It is the very paradise of mothers-in-law. The paterfamilias seldom interferes if his soup is ready at due time and she makes both ends meet at the end of the year, with a trifle over for a barrel of pique-pout to be indulged in on extraordinary occasions. From La Teste to the valley of the Gave this old house-mother is queen of the hive, active, thrifty, keen of eye, and sharp of tongue. The slightest murmur is frozen into silence beneath the arctic ray of her Poyser-like glance. She is a hawk by day and an owl by night. She directs the spinning and weaving of the wool and flax, orders the meals, and superintends the wardrobe of the whole colony. The land is so poor that it is seldom divided among the children. The oldest heir becomes head of the family, and they all fare better by sharing in the general income. In unity there is safety—and economy.
At every door is the clumsy machine for breaking the flax that is spun during the long winter evenings for the sail-makers of Bayonne or the weavers of Béarn, whose linen, if not equal to that of Flanders, is as good as that of Normandy. Before every house is also the huge oven where the bread is baked for general consumption. Flocks of geese paddle from pool to pool in the marshes, and wild ducks breed undisturbed in the fens. In the villages on the borders of the Landes you hear in the morning a sharp whistle that might serve for a locomotive. It is the swineherd summoning his charge, which issue in a gallop, two or three from each house, to seek their food in the moors. They all come back in the evening, and go to their own pens to get the bucket of bran that awaits them. Feeding thus in the wild, their meat acquires a peculiar flavor. Most of these animals go into the market. The hams of Bayonne have always been famous. We might say they are historic, for Strabo speaks of them.
When the rainy season is at an end, these bogs and stagnant pools give out a deadly miasma in the burning sun, engendering fevers, dysentery, and the fatal pellagra. The system is rapidly undermined, and the peasant seldom attains to an advanced age. He marries at twenty and is old at forty.
A kind of awe comes over the soul in traversing this region, and yet it has a certain mysterious attraction which draws us on and on, as if nature had some marvellous secret in store for us. The atmosphere is charged with a thin vapor that quivers in the blazing sun. Strange insects are in the air. A sense of the infinite, such as we feel in the midst of the ocean, comes over us. We grow breathless as the air—grow silent as the light that gilds the vast landscape before us. One of the greatest of the sons of the Landes—the Père de Ravignan—says: “Solitude is the patrie des forts: silence is their prayer.” One feels how true it is in these boundless moors. It is the only prayer fit for this realm of silence, where one is brought closer and closer to the heart of nature, and restored, as it were, at least in a degree, to the primeval relation of man with his Creator.
Carlyle says the finest nations in the world, the English and the American, are all going away into wind and tongue. We recommend a season in the Landes, where one becomes speedily impressed that “silence is the eternal duty of man.”
We wonder such a region should be inhabited. The daunas, we hope, never have courage enough to raise their still voices in the open air. We fancy wooing carried on in true Shaksperian style:
However this may be, the Landes are peopled, though thinly. Here and there at immense distances we come to a cottage. The men are shepherds, fishermen, or résiniers, as the turpentine-producers are called. Pliny, Dioscorides, and other ancient writers speak of the inhabitants as collecting the yellow amber thrown up by the sea, and trafficking in beeswax, resin, and pitch. The Phœnicians and Carthaginians initiated them into the mysteries of mining and forging. The Moors taught them the value of their cork-trees. They still keep bees that feed on the purple bells of the heather, and sell vast quantities of wax for the candles used in the churches of France—cierges, as they are called, from cire vierge—virgin wax, wrought by chaste bees, and alone fit for the sacred altars of Jesus and Mary.
Ausonius thus speaks of the pursuits of the people:
They are devoting more and more attention to the production of turpentine by planting the maritime pine which grew here in the days of Strabo, and thereby reclaiming the vast tracts of sand thrown up by the sea. A priest, the Abbé Desbiez, and his brother are said to have first conceived the idea of reclaiming their native deserts and staying the progress of the quicksands which had buried so many places, and were moving unceasingly on at the rate of about twenty-five yards a year, threatening the destruction of many more. That was about a hundred years ago. A few years after M. Brémontier, a French engineer, tested the plan by planting, as far as his means allowed, the maritime pine, the strong, fibrous roots of which take tenacious hold of the slightest crevice in the rock, and absorb the least nutriment in the soil. But this experiment was slow to lead to any important result, as the pinada, or pine plantations, involve an outlay that makes no return for years. It was not till Louis Philippe’s time that the work was carried on with any great activity. Napoleon III. also greatly extended the plantations—the importance of which became generally acknowledged—not only to arrest the progress of the sands, but to meet the want of turpentine in the market, so long dependent on imports.
In ten years the trees begin to yield an income. Each acre then furnishes twelve or fifteen thousand poles for vineyards or the coalman. The prudent owner does not tap his trees till they are twenty-five years old. By that time they are four feet in circumference and yield turpentine to the value of fifty or sixty francs a year. Then the résinier comes with his hatchet and makes an incision low down in the trunk, from which the resin flows into an earthern jar or a hollow in the ground. These jars are emptied at due intervals, and the incision from time to time is widened. Later, others are made parallel to it. These are finally extended around the tree. With prudence this treatment may be continued a century; for this species of pine is very hardy if not exhausted. When the poor tree is near its end, it is hacked without any mercy and bled to death. Then it is only fit for the sawmill, wood-pile, or coal-pit.
Poor and desolate as the Landes are, they have had their share of great men. “Every path on the globe may lead to the door of a hero,” says some one. We have spoken of La Teste. This was the stronghold of the stout old Captals de Buch,[4] belonging to the De Graillys, one of the historic families of the country. No truer specimen of the lords of the Landes could be found than these old captals, who, poor, proud, and adventurous, entered the service of the English, to whom they remained faithful as long as that nation had a foothold in the land. Their name and deeds are familiar to every reader of Froissart. The nearness of Bordeaux, and the numerous privileges and exemptions granted the foresters and herdsmen of the Landes, explain the strong attachment of the people to the English crown. The De Graillys endeavored by alliances to aggrandize their family, and finally became loyal subjects of France under Louis XI. They intermarried with the Counts of Foix and Béarn, and their vast landed possessions were at length united with those of the house of Albret. Where would the latter have been without them? And without the Albrets, where the Bourbons?
And this reminds us of the Sires of Albret, another and still more renowned family of the Landes.
Near the source of the Midou, among the pine forests of Maremsin, you come to a village of a thousand people called Labrit, the ancient Leporetum, or country of hares, whence Lebret, Labrit, and Albret. Here rose the house of Albret from obscurity to reign at last over Navarre and unite the most of ancient Aquitaine to the crown of France. The history of these lords of the heather is a marvel of wit and good-luck. Great hunters of hares and seekers of heiresses, they were always on the scent for advantageous alliances, not too particular about the age or face of the lady, provided they won broad lands or a fat barony. Once in their clutches, they seldom let go. They never allowed a daughter to succeed to any inheritance belonging to the seigneurie of Albret as long as there was a male descendant. Always receive, and never give, was their motto. Their daughters had their wealth of beauty for a dowry, with a little money or a troublesome fief liable to reversion.
The Albrets are first heard of in the XIth century, when the Benedictine abbot of S. Pierre at Condom, alarmed for the safety of Nérac, one of the abbatial possessions, called upon his brother, Amanieu d’Albret, for aid. The better to defend the monk’s property, the Sire of Albret built a castle on the left bank of the Baïse, and played the rôle of protector so well that at last his descendants are found sole lords of Nérac, on the public square of which now stands the statue of Henry IV., the most glorious of the race. The second Amanieu went to the Crusades under the banner of Raymond of St. Gilles, and entered Jerusalem next to Godfrey of Bouillon, to whom an old historian makes him related, nobody knows how. Oihenard says the Albrets descended from the old kings of Navarre, and a MS. of the XIVth century links them with the Counts of Bigorre; but this was probably to flatter the pride of the house after it rose to importance. We find a lord of Albret in the service of the Black Prince with a thousand lances (five thousand men), and owner of Casteljaloux, Lavazan, and somehow of the abbey of Sauve-Majour; but not finding the English service sufficiently lucrative, he passed over to the enemy. Charles d’Albret was so able a captain that he quartered the lilies of France on his shield, and held the constable’s sword till the fatal battle of Agincourt. Alain d’Albret made a fine point in the game by marrying Françoise de Bretagne, who, though ugly, was the niece and only heiress of Jean de Blois, lord of Périgord and Limoges. His son had still better luck. He married Catherine of Navarre. If he lost his possessions beyond the Pyrenees, he kept the county of Foix, and soon added the lands of Astarac. Henry I. of Navarre, by marrying Margaret of Valois, acquired all the spoils of the house of Armagnac. Thus the princely house of Navarre, under their daughter Jeanne, who married Antoine de Bourbon, was owner of all Gascony and part of Guienne. It was Henry IV. of France who finally realized the expression of the blind faith of the house of Albret in its fortune, expressed in the prophetic device graven on the Château de Coarraze, where he passed his boyhood: “Lo que ha de ser no puede faltar”—That which must be will be!
But we have not yet come to the door of our hero. There is another native of the Landes whose fame has gone out through the whole earth—whose whole life and aim were in utter contrast with the spirit of these old lords of the heather. The only armor he ever put on was that of righteousness; the only sword, that of the truth; the only jewel, that which the old rabbis say Abraham wore, the light of which raised up the bowed down and healed the sick, and, after his death, was placed among the stars! It need not be said we refer to S. Vincent de Paul, the great initiator of public charity in France, who by his benevolence perhaps effected as much for the good of the kingdom as Richelieu with his political genius. He was born during the religious conflicts of the XVIth century, in the little hamlet of Ranquine, in the parish of Pouy, on the border of the Landes, a few miles from Dax. It must not be supposed the particule in his name is indicative of nobility. In former times people who had no name but that given them at the baptismal font often added the place of their birth to prevent confusion. S. Vincent was the son of a peasant, and spent his childhood in watching his father’s scanty flock among the moors. The poor cottage in which he was born is still standing, and near it the gigantic old oak to the hollow of which he used to retire to pray, both of which are objects of veneration to the pious pilgrim of all ranks and all lands. Somewhere in these vast solitudes—whether among the ruins of Notre Dame de Buglose, destroyed a little before by the Huguenots, or in his secret oratory in the oak, we cannot say—he heard the mysterious voice which once whispered to Joan of Arc among the forests of Lorraine—a voice difficult to resist, which decided his vocation in life. He resolved to enter the priesthood. The Franciscans of Dax lent him books and a cell, and gave him a pittance for the love of God; but he finished his studies and took his degree at Toulouse, as was only discovered by papers found after his death, so unostentatious was his life. He partly defrayed his expenses at Toulouse by becoming the tutor of some young noblemen of Buzet. Near the latter place was a solitary mountain chapel in the woods, not far from the banks of the Tarn, called Notre Dame de Grâce. Its secluded position, the simplicity of its decorations, and the devotion he experienced in this quiet oratory, attracted the pious student, and he often retired there to pray before the altar of Our Lady of Grace. It was there he found strength to take upon himself the yoke of the priesthood—a yoke angels might fear to bear. It was there, in solitude and silence, assisted by a priest and a clerk, that he offered his first Mass; for, so terrified was he by the importance and sublimity of this divine function, he had not the courage to celebrate it in public. This chapel is still standing, and is annually crowded with pilgrims on the festival of S. Vincent of Paul. It is good to kneel on the worn flag-stones where the saint once prayed, and pour out one’s soul before the altar that witnessed the fervor of his first Mass. The superior-general of the Lazarists visited this interesting chapel in 1851, accompanied by nearly fifty Sisters of Charity. They brought a relic of the saint, a chalice and some vestments for the use of the chaplain, and a bust of S. Vincent for the new altar to his memory.
Every step in S. Vincent’s life is marked by the unmistakable hand of divine Providence. Captured in a voyage by Algerine pirates, he is sold in the market-place of Tunis, that he might learn to sympathize with those who are in bonds; he falls into the hands of a renegade, who, with his whole family, is soon converted and makes his escape from the country. S. Vincent presents them to the papal legate at Avignon, and goes to Rome, whence he returns, charged with a confidential mission by Cardinal d’Ossat. He afterwards becomes a tutor in the family of the Comte de Gondi—another providential event. The count is governor-general of the galleys, and the owner of vast possessions in Normandy. S. Vincent labors among the convicts, and, if he cannot release them from their bonds, he teaches them to bear their sufferings in a spirit of expiation. He establishes rural missions in Normandy, and founds the College of Bons-Enfants and the house of S. Lazare at Paris.
A holy widow, Mme. Legros, falls under his influence, and charitable organizations of ladies are formed, and sisters for the special service of the sick are established at S. Nicolas du Chardonnet. Little children, abandoned by unnatural mothers, are dying of cold and hunger in the streets; S. Vincent opens a foundling asylum, and during the cold winter nights he goes alone through the most dangerous quarters of old Paris in search of these poor waifs of humanity.[5] Clerical instruction is needed, and Richelieu, at his instance, endows the first ecclesiastical seminary. The moral condition of the army excites the saint’s compassion, and the cardinal authorizes missionaries among the soldiers. The province of Lorraine is suffering from famine. Mothers even devour their own children. In a short time S. Vincent collects sixteen hundred thousand livres for their relief. Under the regency of Anne of Austria he becomes a member of the Council of Ecclesiastical Affairs. In the wars of the Fronde he is for peace, and negotiates between the queen and the parliament. The foundation of a hospital for old men marks the end of his noble, unselfish life. The jewel of charity never ceases to glow in his breast. It is his great bequest to his spiritual children. How potent it has been is proved by the incalculable good effected to this day by the Lazarists, Sisters of Charity, and Society of S. Vincent of Paul—beautiful constellations in the firmament of the church!
In the midst of his honors S. Vincent never forgot his humble origin, but often referred to it with the true spirit of ama nesciri et pro nihilo reputari. Not that he was inaccessible to human weakness, but he knew how to resist it. We read in his interesting Life by Abbé Maynard that the porter of the College of Bons-Enfants informed the superior one day that a poorly-clad peasant, styling himself his nephew, was at the door. S. Vincent blushed and ordered him to be taken up to his room. Then he blushed for having blushed, and, going down into the street, embraced his nephew and led him into the court, where, summoning all the professors of the college, he presented the confused youth: “Gentlemen, this is the most respectable of my family.” And he continued, during the remainder of his visit, to introduce him to visitors of every rank as if he were some great lord, in order to avenge his first movement of pride. And when, not long after, he made a retreat, he publicly humbled himself before his associates: “Brethren, pray for one who through pride wished to take his nephew secretly to his room because he was a peasant and poorly dressed.”
S. Vincent returned only once to his native place after he began his apostolic career. This was at the close of a mission among the convicts of Bordeaux. During his visit he solemnly renewed his baptismal vows in the village church where he had been baptized and made his First Communion, and on the day of his departure he went with bare feet on a pilgrimage to Notre Dame de Buglose, among whose ruins he had so often prayed in his childhood, but which was now rebuilt. He was accompanied, not only by his relatives, but by all the villagers, who were justly proud of their countryman. He sang a solemn Mass at the altar of Our Lady, and afterwards assembled the whole family around the table for a modest repast, at the end of which he rose to take leave of them. They all fell at his feet and implored his blessing. “Yes, I give you my blessing,” replied he, much affected, “but I bless you poor and humble, and beg our Lord to continue among you the grace of holy poverty. Never abandon the condition in which you were born. This is my earnest recommendation, which I beg you to transmit as a heritage to your children. Farewell for ever!”
His advice was religiously kept. By mutual assistance his family might have risen above its original obscurity. Some of his mother’s family were advocates at the parliament of Bordeaux, and it would have been easy to obtain offices that would have given them, at least, prominence in their own village; but they clung to their rural pursuits. The advice of their sainted relative was too precious a legacy to be renounced.
Not that S. Vincent was insensible to their condition or unambitious by nature, but he knew the value of the hidden life and the perils of worldly ambition. We have on this occasion another glimpse of his struggles with nature. Hardly had he left his relatives before he gave vent to his emotion in a flood of tears, and he almost reproached himself for leaving them in their poverty. But let us quote his own words: “The day I left home I was so filled with sorrow at separating from my poor relatives that I wept as I went along—wept almost incessantly. Then came the thought of aiding them and bettering their condition; of giving so much to this one, and so much to that. While my heart thus melted within me, I divided all I had with them. Yes, even what I had not; and I say this to my confusion, for God perhaps permitted it to make me comprehend the value of the evangelical counsel. For three months I felt this importunate longing to promote the interests of my brothers and sisters. It constantly weighed on my poor heart. During this time, when I felt a little relieved, I prayed God to deliver me from this temptation, and persevered so long in my prayer that at length he had pity on me and took away this excessive tenderness for my relations; and though they have been needy, and still are, the good God has given me the grace to commit them to his Providence, and to regard them as better off than if they were in an easier condition.”
S. Vincent was equally rigid as to his own personal necessities, as may be seen by the following words from his own lips: “When I put a morsel of bread to my mouth, I say to myself: Wretched man, hast thou earned the bread thou art going to eat—the bread that comes from the labor of the poor?”
Such is the spirit of the saints. In these days, when most people are struggling to rise in the world, many by undue means, and to an unlawful height, it is well to recall this holy example; it is good to get a glimpse into the heart of a saint, and to remember there are still many in the world and in the cloister who strive to counterbalance all this ambition and love of display by their humility and self-denial.
Immediately after S. Vincent’s canonization, in 1737, the inhabitants of Pouy, desirous of testifying their veneration for his memory, removed the house where he was born a short distance from its original place, without changing its primitive form in the least, and erected a small chapel on the site, till means could be obtained for building a church. The great Revolution put a stop to the plan. In 1821 a new effort was made, a committee appointed, and a subscription begun which soon amounted to thirty thousand francs; but at the revolution of 1830 material interests prevailed, and the funds were appropriated to the construction of roads.
The ecclesiastical authorities at length took the matter in hand, and formed the plan, not only of building a church, but surrounding it with the various charitable institutions founded by S. Vincent—a hospital for the aged, asylums for orphans and foundlings, and perhaps a ferme modèle in the Landes.
In 1850 the Bishop of Aire appealed to the Catholic world for aid. Pius IX. blessed the undertaking. On the Festival of the Transfiguration, 1851, the corner-stone was laid by the bishop, assisted by Père Etienne, the superior-general of the Lazarists. Napoleon III. and the Empress Eugénie largely contributed to the work, and in a few years the church and hospice were completed. The consecration took place April 24, 1864, in the presence of an immense multitude from all parts of the country. From three o’clock in the morning there were Masses at a dozen altars, and the hands of the priests were fatigued in administering the holy Eucharist. Among the communicants were eight hundred members of the Society of S. Vincent de Paul, from Bordeaux, who manifested their joy by enthusiastic hymns. At eight in the forenoon Père Etienne, surrounded by Lazarists and Sisters of Charity, celebrated the Holy Sacrifice at the newly-consecrated high altar, and several novices made their vows, among whom was a young African, a cousin of Abdel Kader. A châsse containing relics of S. Vincent was brought in solemn procession from the parish church of Pouy, where he had been held at the font and received the divine Guest in his heart for the first time. The road was strewn with flowers and green leaves. The weather was delightful and the heavens radiant. At the head of the procession was borne a banner, on which S. Vincent was represented as a shepherd, followed by all the orphans of the new asylum and the old men of the hospice. Then came a long line of Enfants de Marie dressed in white, carrying oriflammes, followed by the students of the colleges of Aire and Dax. Behind were fifteen hundred members of the Society of S. Vincent de Paul, and a file of sisters of various orders, including eight hundred Sisters of Charity, with a great number of Lazarists in the rear. Then came thirty relatives of S. Vincent, wearing the peasant’s costume of the district, heirs of his virtues and simplicity—Noblesse oblige. Then the Polish Lazarists with the flag of their nation, beloved by S. Vincent, and after them the clergy of the diocese and a great number from foreign parts, among whom was M. Eugène Boré, of Constantinople, now superior-general of the two orders founded by the saint. The shrine came next, surrounded by Lazarists and Sisters of Charity. Behind the canons and other dignitaries came eight bishops, four archbishops, and Cardinal Donnet of Bordeaux, followed by the civil authorities and an immense multitude of people nearly two miles in extent, with banners bearing touching devices.
This grand procession of more than thirty thousand people proceeded with the utmost order, to the sound of chants, instrumental music, and salutes from cannon from time to time, to the square in front of the new church, where, before an altar erected at the foot of S. Vincent’s oak, they were addressed by Père Etienne in an eloquent, thrilling discourse, admirable in style and glowing with imagery, suited to the fervid nature of this southern region. He spoke of S. Vincent, not only as the man of his age with a providential mission, but of a type suited to all ages.
The man who loved his brethren, reconciled enemies, brought the rich and poor into one common field imbued with a common idea of sacrifice and devotion, fed the orphan, aided the needy, and wiped away the tears of the sufferer, is the man of all times, and especially of an age marked by the fomentation of political passions.
The old oak was gay with streamers, the hollow was fitted up as an oratory, before which Cardinal Donnet said Mass in the open air, after which thousands of voices joined in the solemn Te Deum Laudamus, and the thirteen prelates terminated the grand ceremony by giving their united benediction to the kneeling crowd.
A whole flock of Sisters of Charity, with their dove-like plumage of white and gray, took the same train as ourselves the pleasant September morning we left Bayonne for the birth-place of S. Vincent of Paul. They seemed like birds of good omen. They were also going to the Berceau (cradle), as they called it, not on a mere pilgrimage, but to make their annual retreat. What for, the saints alone know; for they looked like the personification of every amiable virtue, and quite ready to spread their white wings and take flight for heaven. It was refreshing to watch their gentle, unaffected ways, wholly devoid of those demure airs of superior sanctity and repulsive austerity so exasperating to us worldly-minded people. They all made the sign of the cross as the train moved out of the station—and a good honest one it was, as if they loved the sign of the Son of Man, and delighted in wearing it on their breast. Some had come from St. Sebastian, others from St. Jean de Luz, and several from Bayonne; but they mingled like sisters of one great family of charity. Some chatted, some took out their rosaries and went to praying with the most cheerful air imaginable, as if it were a new refreshment just allowed them, instead of being the daily food of their souls; and others seemed to be studying with interest the peculiar region we were now entering. For we were now in the Landes—low, level, monotonous, and melancholy. The railway lay through vast forests of dusky-pines, varied by willows and cork-trees, with here and there, at long distances, an open tract where ripened scanty fields of corn and millet around the low cottages of the peasants. The sides of the road were purple with heather. The air was full of aromatic odors. Each pine had its broad gash cut by some merciless hand, and its life-blood was slowly trickling down its side. Passing through this sad forest, one could not help thinking of the drear, mystic wood in Dante’s Inferno, where every tree encloses a human soul with infinite capacity of suffering, and at every gash cut, every branch lopped off, utters a despairing cry: