Chapter XII (4)

Heinrich made no answer, for the sound of the carriage-wheels was heard, and he offered his mother his hand, led her down the steps, and placed her in the coach. She drew him towards her, and kissed him passionately. “Farewell, my dearest,” she said. “I count the minutes till we meet again.” And she never ceased to watch him as long as the mansion was visible.

He was a sight of which many a mother might have been proud, as he stood there bare headed, the winter sun lighting his face, the winter wind lifting his dark locks, the fresh bloom of youth enhancing his peculiar beauty. His mother sighed deeply as the coach turned a corner which hid him from her view--a sigh often repeated during the course of her journey.

It was a full hour before she was out of her own domains, though the horses sped swiftly over the frozen ground. All those broad acres, all that noble woodland, all those peasant homes, were hers; and for miles behind her the land stretching north and west belonged with it, for she had married the owner of the next estate, and, widowed, held it for her son. But at her death all these possessions must be divided among distant unknown kinsmen, if Heinrich persisted in the desire, which had been his from early boyhood, to become a monk. His mother’s whole heart was set against it. Her aim in life was to find for him a wife whom he would love, and whom he would bring to their home; she longed to hold before her death her son’s son on her knee.

The coach stopped as the sun was setting; and at the palace door, too eager for a sight of her to wait in courtly etiquette within, host and hostess stood ready to greet this friend of a lifetime.

“No Heinrich?” they cried, laughing. “A truant always. And we have that with us to-day which will make you wish him here. No matter what! You will see in time.”

And in time she saw indeed. Going slowly up the marble stairs a half-hour later, a vision of magnificent beauty, with her ermine mantle wrapped about her, the hood fallen back from her regal head, the eyes with the pained look of disappointment and longing still lingering in them in spite of the loving welcomes lavished upon her, she came, in a turn of the stairs, upon another vision of beauty radiant as her own, and extremely opposite.

Coming slowly down towards her was a young girl, tall and slight, with a skin of dazzling fairness, where the blue veins in temple and neck were plain to see; a delicate tint like blush-roses upon the cheek; great waves of fair hair sending back a glint of gold to the torches just lighted in the hall; eyes very large, and so deeply set that at first their violet blue seemed black--eyes meek and downcast, and tender as a dove’s, but in them, too, a look of pain and yearning. The face at first view was like that of an innocent child, but beneath its youthfulness lay an expression which bespoke a wealth of love and strength and patience, unawakened as yet, but of unusual force. Skilled to read character by years of experience in kings’ palaces, madame the countess read her well--so far as she could read at all.

Evidently the maiden saw nothing that was before her; but madame held her breath in surprise and delight, and stood still, waiting her approach. Not till she came close to her did the girl look up, then she too stopped with a startled “Pardon madame”; and at sight of the timid, lovely eyes, at the sound of the voice--like a flute, like water rippling softly, like a south wind sighing in the seaside pines--madame opened her arms, and caught the stranger to her heart. “My child, my child,” she cried, “how beautiful you are!”

“Madame, madame,” the girl panted in amazement, carried away in her turn at the sudden sight of this lovely lady, who, she thought, could be, in her regal beauty and attire, no less than a princess--“Madame sees herself surely!”

The countess laughed outright at the artless, undesigned compliment. “And as charming as beautiful,” she said. “I must see more of you, my love.”

Then, kissing the cheek, red now as damask roses, she passed on. In the hall above her hostess stood with an arch smile on her lips. “Ah! Gertrude, we planned it well,” she said. “Fritz and I have been watching for that meeting. It was a brilliant tableau.”

“But who is she, Wilhelmina? Tell me quickly. She is loveliness itself.”

“’Tis but a short story, dear. We found her in Halle. Her name is Elizabeth Wessenberg. She is well-born, but her family are strict Lutherans. She--timid, precious little dove!--became a Catholic by some good grace of the good God. But it was a lonely life, and I begged her off from it for a while. Oh! but her parents winced to see her go. They hate the name even of Catholic. That is all--only she sings like a lark, and she hardly knows what to make of her new life and faith, it is so strange to her.”

“That is all! Thanks, Wilhelmina. I will be with you soon. I long to see her once again.”

All that evening the countess kept Elizabeth near her, and every hour her admiration increased. A maiden so beautiful, yet so ignorant of her own charms, so unworldly, so innocent, she had never seen. Alone in her room that night she fell trembling upon her knees--poor, passionate, self-willed mother!--before the statue of the Holy Mother bearing the divine Son in her arms, and she held up her hands and prayed aloud.

“I have found her at last,” she cried--“a child who has won her way into my heart at once with no effort of her own; a pearl among all pearls; one whom my boy _must_ love. Lord Jesus, have I not given thee two sons? Give me now one son to keep for my own, and not for thee. Grant that he may love this precious creature, fit for him as though thou thyself hadst made her for him, even as Eve was made for Adam.” And then she covered her face, and sobbed and pleaded with long, wordless prayers.

The next day saw her on her homeward way, but not alone. She had coaxed in her irresistible fashion till she had obtained for herself from her friend a part of Elizabeth’s visit; and Elizabeth felt as if she were living in a dream, there in the costly coach, wrapped in furs and watched by those beautiful eyes. Constantly the countess talked with her, leading the conversation delicately in such a manner that she found out much in regard to Elizabeth’s home, and penetrated into her hidden sorrows in regard to the coldness and lack of sympathy there. And it needed no words to tell that this was a heart which craved sympathy and love most keenly; which longed for something higher and stronger than itself to lean upon. Every time she looked at the sensitive face, endowed with such exquisite refinement of beauty; every time the childlike yet longing, unsatisfied eyes met hers; every time the musical voice fell upon her ears, fearing ever an echo of that same craving for something more and better than the girl had yet known, madame’s mother-heart throbbed towards her, and it seemed to her that she could hardly wait for the blessing which, she had persuaded herself, was surely coming to her at last.

Now and then she spoke of the country through which they passed: and to Elizabeth it was almost incredible that such wealth could belong to one person only. Now and then she spoke of “my son” in a tone of exultant love, and then Elizabeth trembled a little; for she dreaded to meet this stranger. Very grand and proud she fancied him; one who would hardly notice at all a person so insignificant as herself.

“Here is the village chapel, Elizabeth,” madame said, as the coach stopped suddenly. “Will you scold, my little one, if I go in for a minute to the priest’s house? Or perhaps you would like to visit the Blessed Sacrament while I am gone?”

Yes, that was what Elizabeth would like indeed; and there she knelt and prayed, never dreaming how much was being said about her only next door.

“Father!” madame exclaimed impetuously to the gray-haired priest who rose to greet her, “I must have Mass said for my intention every morning for a week. See, here is a part only of my offering.” And she laid a heavy purse upon the table. “If God grant my prayer, it shall be doubled, tripled.”

“God’s answers cannot be bought, madame,” the priest said sadly, “nor can they be forced.”

“They must be this time, then, father. You must make my intention your own. Will you not? Will you not for this once, father?”

“What is it, then, my daughter?”

“Father, do not be angry. It is the old hunger wrought up to desperation. I cannot give my boy to be a monk!”

The priest’s face darkened.

“No! no!” madame hurried on. “It is too much to ask of me. And now I have found a bride for him at last. She waits for me in the chapel, fair and pure as the lilies. I am taking her home in triumph.”

“Does Heinrich know of this?”

“Not one word. He cannot fail to love her when he sees her. It is for this I ask your prayers.”

The priest pushed away the purse. “I will have none of this,” he said. “It is far better to see my poor suffer than that this unrighteous deed should be done. You call yourself a Catholic, and pride yourself because your house was always Catholic; and yet you dare say that anything is too much for God to ask of you! I am an old man, madame, and have had many souls to deal with, but I never yet saw one whose vocation was more plain than Heinrich’s to the entire service of God’s church. Will you dare run counter to God’s will?”

“Nay, father, it cannot be his will. Our very name would die out--our heritage pass from us!”

“And suppose it does! Who shall promise you that if Heinrich marries there shall ever be child of his to fill his place? And what _are_ place, and name, and heritage, madame? That which death, or war, or a king’s caprice may snatch away in a moment. But your spiritual heritage shall never die. What mother on earth but might envy you if you give your three sons--your all--to God! Many are the children of the desolate, more than of her that hath an husband, saith the Lord. _He_ maketh a barren woman to dwell in a house the joyful mother of children. There is a place and a name within his walls better than sons and daughters. Do you dream what risk you run, what part you play, when you would tempt from his calling one who, if you leave God to work his own pleasure, shall hereafter shine as the stars through all eternity?”

She did not answer back with pride. Instead, her whole face grew soft, and the large tears filled her eyes and ran slowly down her cheeks. “I want to do right,” she said humbly; “but I cannot feel that it is right. Father, see: I will not ask you to make my intention yours. But I promise you one thing: I _must_ ask God to grant me this blessing, but it shall be the last time. If I fail now, let his will be done. And do you, father, ask him to make it plain to me what his will is.”

“God bless you, daughter!” the old priest answered, much moved by her humility. “I will pray that indeed. But still I warn you that I think you are doing wrong in so much as trying such an experiment as this which you have undertaken.”

“No, no,” she cried again. “No, no, father. This once I must try, or my heart will break.”

Again in the carriage, she pressed Elizabeth to her closely, and kissed her, and said words of passionate love, finding relief thus for the pent-up feelings of her heart; but Elizabeth knew not how to reply. It troubled and perplexed her--this lavish affection; for she could not repay it in kind. It only served to waken a suffering which she had known from childhood, a strange, unsatisfied yearning within her, which came at the sight of a lovely landscape, or the sound of exquisite music, or the caresses of some friend. She wanted _more_; and where and what was that “more,” which seemed to lie beyond everything, and which she could never grasp?

She felt it often during her visit--that visit where attention was constantly bestowed on her, and she lived in the midst of such luxury as she had never known before. Something in Heinrich’s face seemed to her to promise an answer to her questionings--it was so at rest, so settled; and this, more than anything else about him, interested and attracted her. Madame saw the interest, without guessing the cause. She felt also that Heinrich was not wholly insensible to Elizabeth’s presence; and though she asked him no direct questions, she contrived to turn conversation into the channels which could not fail to engage him, and which the young convert also cared for most.

Elizabeth decided that Heinrich knew more than any one else, but even he tired her sometimes. “He knows _too_ much,” she thought, “and he is so cold and indifferent. Yet he would not be himself if he were more like madame; and she is too tender. Oh! what does it all mean? There is nothing that makes one content except church, and one cannot be always there.”

So passed the time till S. Agnes’ Eve. That night, when the young people entered the dining-hall, madame was absent. She sent a message that they must dine without her, as she had a severe headache, and Elizabeth might come to her an hour after dinner.

The meal was a silent one. When it was over, and they went into the library, Heinrich seated himself at the organ. Grand chorals, funeral marches full of mourning and awe and hope, Mass music welcoming the coming of the Lord of Sabaoth, filled the lofty room. When he ceased, Elizabeth was sobbing irrepressibly.

“Forgive me, forgive me!” she said. “I cannot help it. O monsieur! I know not what it means. Love and hate, beauty and deformity, joy and suffering--I cannot understand. Nothing satisfies, and to be a Catholic makes the craving worse. Is it because I am only just beginning, and that I shall understand better by and by?”

He stood at a little distance from her, looking not at her at all, but upward and far away.

“I will tell mademoiselle a story, if she will permit it,” he said. “Many years ago there was a princess, very beautiful, very wise, and very wealthy. Her councillors begged that she would marry, and at last she told them that she would do so, if they would find for her the prince she should describe, he should be so rich that he should esteem all the treasures of the Indies as a little dust; so wise that no man could ever mention in his presence aught that he did not already know; so fair that no child of man should compare with him in beauty; so spotless in his soul that the very heavens should not be pure in his sight. They knew not where to find that prince, but their lady knew.”

He paused, though not as for an answer. He had guessed well his mother’s plans and hopes; he fathomed as truly Elizabeth’s nature; and when he spoke again, it was as no one except the priest of God had ever heard him speak:

“There are some souls whom no one and nothing on earth can possibly satisfy. Beauty, and learning, and friendship, and home, and love, each alike wearies them. God only can content them, and he is enough--_God alone_. To such souls he gives himself, if they sincerely desire it. It is a love beyond all imaginable earthly love. It satisfies, yet leaves a constant craving which we have no wish should cease. He understands everything: even those things which we cannot explain to ourselves. It is he finding whom the soul loveth him, and will not let him go.”

After saying this, he sat down once more at the organ, and played again till the hour named by madame arrived. Elizabeth found her pale and suffering, but with a glad look in her eyes.

“You have had talk together, then,” she cried. “I heard the music cease for a while. And is he not charming and good, my Heinrich?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said dreamily. “He made me understand a little to-night--better than any one has ever done before.”

“Is that so, my little one? And how then?”

“Here,” Elizabeth said innocently, laying her hand on her heart, and with no suspicion of the meaning which the countess attached to the act. “If I could only understand more--more.”

“You will in time, most dear one--in time, in time.” And oh! the exulting ring in madame’s voice. “But see, my precious, what I have to show you.”

A chest was drawn up beside madame’s easy-chair. She opened it, and before Elizabeth’s dazzled eyes lay jewels of wondrous lustre and value--long strings of pearls, changing opals with the fire-spark trembling in them, sapphires blue as the sky, emeralds green as the sea, and glittering diamonds. Madame drew out the costly things, and adorned Elizabeth with one set after another by turn, watching the effect. Last of all, she touched a spring, and took from a secret drawer a set of pearls, large and round, with a soft amber tint in them. These she held caressingly and sighed.

“Look, Elizabeth,” she said. “Forty years ago this very night I wore them, when I was a girl like you. There was a great ball here. Some one--ah! but how grand and beautiful he looked; my poor heart remembers well, and is sore with the memory now--some one begged me to try the charm of S. Agnes’ Eve. Dost know it, dear? Nay? Then you shall try it too. Go supperless to rest; look not to left or right, nor yet behind you, but pray God to show you that which shall satisfy your heart of hearts.”

“Did he show you, madame?”

Madame sighed heavily. “Alas! love, alas! What contents us here? I had it for a time, and then God took it from me. No prouder wife than I, no prouder mother; but husband and sons are gone, all except my Heinrich. Pray God to keep him for me, Elizabeth, Elizabeth.”

“And who, then, was S. Agnes, madame? And shall I pray to her that prayer?”

Madame looked aghast, then smiled an amused yet troubled smile. “Nay, child, I thought not of that. S. Agnes was one who loved our blessed Lord alone, not man. She died rather than yield to earthly love and joy.”

“But why, madame?”

“O child, child! But I forget, You have only just begun the Catholic life, my sweet. God’s love, then, is enough for some people; but they are monks and nuns, not common Christians like you and me and Heinrich. We could not live in that way, could we, Elizabeth--you and Heinrich and I?”

“And God would never grow tired of us, madame! Nor ever die! Nor ever misunderstand! O madame! I think we could not live with less.” And Elizabeth stood up suddenly, as if too agitated to remain quiet.

“Ah! love, you are only just a convert. In one’s first excitement one fancies many things. You are meant to serve God in the world, my dear, for many years to come--you and my Heinrich. Pray for him to-night.”

But hurrying along the hall to her own room, Elizabeth whispered passionately in her heart: “I do not want to pray for him. Let him pray for himself. His saints pray for him too, and God loves him, and he does not need me. Does madame, then, suppose that he could ever care for me, or I for him? I want more than he can give--more--more! _Show_ me my heart’s desire, O God, my God!”

In her excitement and in the darkness she laid her hand on the wrong door, and, opening it, found herself in an old gallery, at the end of which a light was glimmering. Scarcely heeding what she did, she moved toward it, and found that she was in the choir of the castle chapel. The door fell gently to behind her, but did not close, and Elizabeth was alone. Alone? The aisles were empty, the organ was still, the priest was gone; but before the sacred shrine the steady ray of the lamp told that He who filleth the heaven of heavens was dwelling in his earthly temple, and that unseen angels guarded all the place.

But of angels or men Elizabeth thought not. Silently, slowly she moved onward, her hands pressed upon her heart, whose passionate beating grew still as she came nearer to the Sacred Heart which alone could fully comfort, fully strengthen, fully understand. Slowly she moved, as one who knows that some great joy is coming surely, and who lengthens willingly the bliss of expectation.

And so she reached a narrow flight of steps, and made her way gently down, and knelt. Outside, in the clear night, a great wind rose, and rocked the castle-tower, but Elizabeth knew it not. She was conscious only of the intense stillness of that unseen Presence; of peace flooding her whole soul like a river; of the nearness of One who is strength and love and truth, infinite and eternal.

“Show me my heart’s desire, O God, my God!” she sighed.

God, _my_ God! She lifted up her eyes, and there, above the shrine, beheld the great crucifix of Hohenstein, brought from the far-off East by a Crusader knight. She lifted up her eyes, and saw the haggard face full of unceasing prayer, the sunken cheeks, the pierced hands and feet, the bones, easy to number, in the worn and tortured body, the side with its deep wound where a spear had passed.

Yet, looking upward steadily, all her excitement gone, a sacred calm upon her inmost soul, Elizabeth knew that her prayer was answered, her lifelong hunger satisfied. God had given her her heart’s desire.

God, _my_ God! No love but his could satisfy; and his could with an eternal content. To that Heart, pierced for her, broken for her, she could offer no less than her whole heart; and that she _must_ offer, not by constraint, but simply because she loved him beyond all, above all, and knew that in him, and in him only, she was sure of an unfailing, an everlasting love.

Madame, seeking her in the early morning, found her room unoccupied, then noticed the gallery-door ajar, and, trembling, sought her there. Elizabeth had kept S. Agnes’ Eve indeed, but it was before the shrine of S. Agnes’ Spouse and Lord.

“My daughter,” the countess said, using the word for the first time, and with oh! how sad a tone--“what have you done this night, my daughter?”

Elizabeth lifted hand and face toward the shrine. “Madame,” she answered slowly, as one who speaks unconsciously in sleep, “I have found Him whom my soul loveth. I hold him, and I will not let him go.”

God himself had made his way plain indeed before Madame the Countess of Hohenstein in this her last struggle with his will. The very plan which she had chosen to gain her cherished hopes had crushed them. Not priest or son, but the girl whom she herself had named for her final trial, had shown her that God’s purposes were far aside from hers.

“Take all, O Lord!” she cried, while her tears fell like rain. “Take all I have. I dare not struggle longer.”

One son gave up his life a martyr in the blood-stained church in Japan. Another endured a lifelong martyrdom among the lepers of the Levant, winning souls yet more tainted than the bodies home again to God. And one, the youngest, and the fairest, and the dearest, was seen in China and in India, in Peru and in Mexico, going without question wherever he was sent, for the greater glory of God; but he was never seen in his German home again. After they once left her, their mother never beheld their faces. And she who had been taken to her heart as a daughter entered an order in a distant land.

Yet none ever heard madame the last Countess of Hohenstein murmur against her lot. Clearly, tenderly, patiently, more and more did God vouchsafe to make his way plain to her. In chapel, day by day, she watched the decaying banners which told of the fields her fathers won; saw the monuments to men of her race who had fought and died for their king and their land; read the names once proudly vaunted, now almost forgotten. What was fame like this to the honor God had showered on her? Souls east and west brought safe to him; life laid down for the Lord of lords; a seed not to be reckoned; a lineage which could never fail; sons and daughters to stand at last in that multitude which no one can number, who have come out of great tribulation, with fadeless palms of victory in their hands--such was her place and name in the house of God.

The quaint German text upon her tombstone puzzled travellers greatly, and those who could decipher it wondered but the more. It ran thus:

_Requiescat in Pace._

GERTRUDE,
_Twenty-ninth and Last Countess of Hohenstein_.

The children of thy barrenness shall still say in thy ears: The place is too strait for me; make me room to dwell in. And thou shalt say in thy heart: Who hath begotten me these? I was barren, and brought not forth, led away, and captive; and who hath brought up these? I was destitute and alone; and these, where were they?

Thus saith the Lord God: Behold, I will lift up my hand to the Gentiles, and will set up my standard to the people. And they shall bring thy sons in their arms, and carry thy daughters upon their shoulders. And thou shalt know that I am the Lord; for they shall not be confounded that wait for him.

THE BASQUES.

We are all Basques. Nay, reader, be not startled at having your supposed nationality thus suddenly set aside. An author of far more learning than we can lay claim to--Señor Erro, a Spanish Basque--gravely asserts that all the inhabitants of Europe and Asia, if not of America also, sprang from the Basques. In short, they--that is, _we_--are the primitive race. And this fearless writer, with a due sense of national superiority, goes boldly on to prove that Adam and Eve spoke the Basque language in the terrestrial Paradise, of which he gives a detailed description according to the Biscayan interpretation of the Biblical account.

We remember how, in search of Adam--great progenitor!--whose said-to-be-fine statue is among the army of saints on the glorious roof of Milan cathedral, we got bewildered on that celestial height, so that we do not to this day feel sure of having discovered the true Adam, and might never have found our way down to earth again had it not been for the kind offices of one of Victor Emanuel’s soldiers. So it is with many a _savant_ in tracing the origin of the human species. Lost in threading the way back to our first parents, they need some rough, uncultured soul to lead them out of the bewildering maze--back to the point whence they started.

But let us hope in this instance filial instinct has not mistaken the genuine Adam--the first speaker, it is possible, of Basque. Señor Erro finds in this language the origin of all civilization and science. It must be confessed we have wofully forgotten our mother-tongue; for it is said to be impossible to learn to speak it unless one goes very young among the Basques. It is a common saying of theirs that the devil once came into their country to learn the language, but gave it up in despair after three hundred years’ application! It may be inferred he had lost the knowledge he had made such successful use of a few thousand years before in the Garden of Eden.

M. Astarloa, likewise a Biscayan, maintains that the extraordinary perfection of this language is a proof it is the only one that could have been conferred on the first man by his Creator, but in another place says it was formed by God himself at the confusion of tongues in the tower of Babel--which assertions rather lack harmony.

Max Müller, the eminent philologist, pretends a serious discussion took place about two hundred years ago in the metropolitan chapter of Pampeluna as to the following knotty points:

_First._ Was Basque the primitive language of mankind? The learned members confessed that, however strong might be their private convictions, they did not dare give an affirmative reply.

_Secondly._ Was Basque the only language spoken by Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden?

As to this, the whole chapter declared there could be no doubt whatever that it was “impossible to bring a reasonable objection against such an opinion.”

This is extremely amusing; but, of course, too absurd to be true. Besides, the archives of Pampeluna do not afford the slightest hint of so singular a record.

Southwestern France, however, has many traditions of the Oriental origin of its inhabitants. Tarbes and Lourdes are said to have been founded by Abyssinian princesses. Belleforest, in his _Cosmography_, says Japhet himself came into Gaul and built the city of Périgueux, which for several ages bore his name. Père Bajole, of Condom, a Jesuit of the XVIIth century, is less precise in his suppositions, but thinks the country was peopled soon after the Deluge, and therefore by those who had correct notions of the true God. Moreover as Noah, of course, would not have allowed his descendants to depart without suitable advice as to the way of salvation, especially to the head of the colony, he concludes that many of the ancient Aquitanians were saved. The Sire Dupleix cites the epistle of S. Martial to show they had retained some proper notions of theology, which accounts for the rapid success of the first Christian apostles of the country.

But to return to the Basques in particular: In the _Leyenda Pendadola_--an old book of the XIth century--we read that “the first settlement in Spain was made by the patriarch Tubal, whose people spoke the language still used in the provinces of Biscay”--that is, the Basque. William von Humboldt likewise attributed to the Basques an Asiatic origin, and was decidedly of the school of MM. Erro and Astarloa, though he rejected their exaggerations. The Basque language, so rich, harmonious, and expressive, is now generally believed to be one of the Turanian tongues. Prince Lucian Bonaparte shows the analogy between it and the Hungarian, Georgian, etc.

The word Basque is derived from the Latin _Vasco_; for in Southwestern France it is quite common to pronounce the letter _v_ like _b_--a habit which made Scaliger wittily say: _Felices populi, quibus Vivere est Bibere_.

The Basque country consists of several provinces on both sides of the Pyrenees bordering on the Bay of Biscay. Labourd, Soule, and Lower Navarre are now in the department of the Basses-Pyrenees, on the French side. The two provinces of Biscay and Guipuzcoa--a part of Alava and of Upper Navarre--belong to Spain. The whole Basque population cannot be more than 500,000. The people, as we have had a proof of, are proud of their ancient nationality; and though there is a difference of manners, physiognomy, and even of idiom in these sections, they all recognize each other as brethren. They are a noble race, and have accomplished great deeds in their day. Entrenched behind their mountains, they long kept the Romans at bay, drove back the Moors, and crushed the rear-guard of Charlemagne.

The Basques have always been famous navigators. The first suggestion that led to the discovery of America is said to have been given Christopher Columbus by Sanchez de Huelva, a Basque pilot. The Basques of Labourd certainly discovered Cape Breton. They were the first to go on whale-fisheries, which, in 1412, extended as far as Iceland. And Newfoundland seems to have been known to them in the middle of the XVth century. The first name of Cape Breton--isle des Bacaloas or Bacaloac--is a Basque name.

In the middle ages the Basques maintained a certain independence by means of their _fueros_, or special privileges, which had been handed down from time immemorial and confirmed by several of the kings of France. The wood of Haïtze is still pointed out as the place where the assemblies of the elders, or _bilçars_, were formerly held in the district of Labourd. Here came together the proprietors of the different communes to regulate their administrative affairs. The most of the assembly leaned on their staves or against the venerable oaks of the forest. But the presiding member sat on a huge stone, the secretary on another, while a third was used for recording the decrees of the assembly, to which the kings of France and Navarre were often forced to yield by virtue of their _fueros_.

And this country was never over-ruled by oppressive lords who held it in subjection by means of their fortified castles. The device of Bayonne--_Nunquam polluta_--seems to express the unstained independence that had never been subjected to feudal dominion. It doubtless had great families who distinguished themselves by their bravery and military services, and were noted for their wealth, like the _casas de parientes majores_--the twenty-four families of great antiquity--in Guypuzcoa, among which was the family of Loyola of Aspeïtia, to which the immortal founder of the Jesuits belonged, as well as that of Balda, his mother’s family; but they never pretended to the feudal authority of the great nobles of France and Spain. It was only in the XVth century that several Basque families, who had become wealthy, ventured to erect some inoffensive towers like those of Uturbi near St. Jean de Luz, occupied by Louis XI. while on the frontier arranging the treaty between the kings of Castile and Arragon.

It is said of the Basques of Spain: As many Basques, as many nobles. Many of their villages have coats of arms on all the houses, which contrast with the decayed lattices and crumbling roofs. The owners point to their emblazonry with the air of a Montmorency. When the Moors invaded the North of Spain, thousands of mountaineers rose to drive them out. As they made war at their own expense, those who returned alive to their cottages received the reward of gentlemen--the right of assuming some heraldic sign and graving it on their walls as a perpetual memorial of their deeds. In the valley of Roncal the inhabitants were all ennobled for having distinguished themselves at the battle of Olaso, in the reign of Fortunio Garcia. In the village of Santa Lucia, not far from Toledo, an old house of the XIIIth century is still to be seen with double lancet windows, which has its record over the door proving the part a former owner had taken at the bridge of Olaso--an azure field traversed by a river, which is spanned by a bridge with three golden arches surmounted by the bleeding head of a Moor.

In a faubourg of Tolosa is a modest house stating that Juan Perez having borne arms for more than fifty years in Italy, Spain, Portugal, Flanders, etc., and taken part in the great naval victory over the Turks at Lepanto under Don Juan of Austria, the emperor created him knight and gave him for his arms the imperial eagle.

But most of these armorial bearings have reference to the chase, to which the people were so addicted. The trophies they brought home, instead of being nailed up over the door, were now graven there in stone--sometimes a wolf, or a hare, or even a favorite hound. Two dogs are on the arms inherited by the Prince of Viana, the donor of the fine bells to the basilica of Notre Dame de Lourdes.

In the commune of Bardos is a château which bears the name of Salla from the founder of the family. It was he who, fighting under Alphonse the Chaste, King of Navarre, had his legs broken by the explosion of a rock, from which time the house of Salla has had for its arms three _chevrons brisés, d’or, sur un champ d’azur_. The most illustrious member of this family is Jean Baptiste de la Salle, who founded the admirable order of the Brothers of the Christian Schools, with a special mission for instructing the poor.

Mgr. de Belsunce, the celebrated bishop of Marseilles, was also of Basque origin. The Château de Belsunce is still to be seen--an old manor-house with Gothic turrets bespeaking the antiquity of the family. The name is associated with the legends of the country. Tradition relates that a winged monster having terrified the whole region, a knight of this house armed himself with a lance and went forth to attack the monster in his den. The dragon, having received a mortal wound, sprang with a dying effort upon his enemy, seized him, and rolled with him into the Nive. From that time the family of Belsunce bore on its shield a dragon sable on a field gules.

The arms of Fontarabia is a siren on the waves bearing a mirror and a comb--symbol of this enchanting region. This historic place, once the rival of St. Jean de Luz, now wears a touching aspect of desolation and mourning which only adds to its attractions. Its ruins have a hue of antiquity that must delight a painter’s eye. The long street that leads to the principal square carries one back three hundred years, most of the houses being in the Spanish style of the XVIth century. There are coats of arms over every door, and balconies projecting from every story, with complicated trellises or lattices that must almost madden the moon-struck serenader. Nothing could be more picturesque than this truly Spanish place. Many of the houses bear the imposing name of _palacios_, which testify to the ancient splendor of this _ciudad muy noble, muy leal, y muy valerosa_. Overlooking the whole place is the château of Jeanne la Folle, massive, heavy, its walls three yards thick, its towers round--a genuine fortress founded in the Xth century, but mostly rebuilt by Charles V. Its chronicles are full of historic interest. Here took place the interview between Louis XI. and Henri IV. of Castille, whose arrogant favorite, Beltram de la Cueva, in his mantle broidered with gold and pearls and diamonds, and his boat with its awning of cloth of gold, must have offered a striking contrast to the extreme simplicity of the King of France.

The fine, imposing church of Fontarabia, in the transition style, is a marked exception to the Basque churches generally, which are of simple primitive architecture, with but few ornaments; and these, at least on the French side of the frontier, mostly confined to the sanctuary, which is rich in color and gilding. Perhaps over the main altar is a painting, but by no means by Murillo or Velasquez. If on the Spanish side, it may be a S. Iago on a white steed, sword in hand, with a red mantle over his pilgrim’s dress, looking like a genuine _matamore_, breathing destruction against the Moors. The Madonna, too, is always there, perhaps with a wheel of silver swords, as if in her bosom were centred all the sorrows of the human race.

The galleries around the nave in the Basque churches gives them the appearance of a _salle de spectacle_; but the clergy think the separation of the sexes promotes the respect due in the sanctuary, and the people themselves cling to the practice. The men occupy the galleries. They all have rosaries in their hands. From time to time you can see them kiss their thumbs, placed in the form of a cross, perhaps to set a seal on their vows to God, as people in the middle ages used to seal their letters with their thumbs to give them a sacred inviolability. Licking the thumb was, we know, an ancient form of giving a solemn pledge; and, till a recent period, the legal form of completing a bargain in Scotland was to join the thumbs and lick them. “What say ye, man? There’s my thumb; I’ll ne’er beguile ye,” said Rob Roy to Bailie Nicol Jarvie.

When Mass is over, every man in the galleries respectfully salutes his next neighbor. This is considered obligatory. Were it even his deadliest enemy, he must bow his head before him. Mass heard with devotion brings the Truce of God to the heart.

The women occupy the nave, sitting or kneeling on the black, funereal-looking carpet that covers the stone above the tomb of their beloved dead. For every family has a slab of wood or marble with an inscription in large characters, which covers the family vault below, and their notions of pious respect oblige the living to kneel on the stone that covers the bones of their forefathers. Or this _was_ the case; for of late years burial in churches has been forbidden, and these slabs now only serve to designate the inalienable right of the families to occupy them during the divine service. It is curious and interesting to examine these sepulchral slabs; for they are like the archives of a town inscribed with the names of the principal inhabitants, with their rank and occupation. In some places the women, by turns, bring every morning an offering for their pastor, which they deposit on these stones like an expiatory libation. Several of them are daily garnished with fruit, wine, eggs, beeswax, yarn, and linen thread, and the _curé_, accompanied by his servant or the sacristan, goes around after Mass to collect this tribute of rural piety in a basket, and give his blessing to the families. These offerings of the first-fruits of the earth are still continued, though the dead are buried elsewhere.

The seat of that mighty potentate, the village mayor, is in the choir, as befits his dignity, which he fully sustains by his majestic deportment in sight of the whole congregation. Sometimes he chants at the lectern, like Charlemagne. The square peristyle of the church is often divided between him and the village school-master for their respective functions, as if to invest them with a kind of sanctity.

In Soule the belfry is formed by extending upwards the western wall of the church in the form of three gables, looking like three obelisks. The bell is hung in the central one. The origin of this custom is thus explained by M. Cénac Montaut:

“In former times, when the Basques had some difficulty about accepting all the truths of the Gospel, the clergy were unable to make them comprehend the doctrine of the Holy Trinity. One of the priests, like S. Patrick with the shamrock, saw he must appeal to the senses in order to reach the mind and heart. Entering his rude pulpit one day, he addressed his flock something after the following manner: ‘Some of you, my dear brethren, recently objected that the God of the Old Testament, in the tables of the law, wished to be worshipped as one God, and that to add now the Son and Holy Spirit to the Deity is to overthrow the law of Sinai and affect the divine Essence itself.… My dear brethren, hitherto we have had but one gable on our belfry, directing towards heaven the innermost prayer of the heart, and bearing the bell by which God seems to speak to us in return. If, now, two other gables were added to this, would not this triple tower, standing on one base, and pointing to the same heaven, still constitute one belfry?’”

This appeal was effective. Those who had been unable to accept the abstract doctrine of the Trinity perfectly comprehended this material unity. The other priests of Soule hastened to make use of so happy an oratorical figure, and all through the valley of the Gave rose the three-gabled, dogmatic belfries, such as we see at the present day.

Near the church is often a modest white house with a small garden containing a few trees and flowers, where the Daughters of the Cross devote themselves to the instruction of children, planting the seeds of piety in their youthful hearts.

The Basque houses, with their triangular, tile-covered roofs, often project like a _châlet_, and are painted white, green, and even pink. The casements are made in the form of a cross, and stained red. The doorway is arched like a church-portal, and has over it a Virgin, or crucifix, or some pious inscription. There is no bolt on the door; for a Basque roof is too inviolable to need a fastening. At the entrance is a _bénitier_ (for holy water), as if the house were to the owner a kind of sanctuary to be entered with purification and a holy thought. You enter a large hall that divides the house into two parts, and contains all the farming utensils. It is here the husbandman husks his corn and thrashes his wheat. The uncolored walls of the rooms are hung with a few rude pictures, as of the Last Judgment, the Wandering Jew, or Napoleon. There are some large presses, a few wooden chairs, a shelf in the corner with a lace-edged covering for the statue of the Virgin, who wears a crown of _immortelles_ on her head and a rosary around her neck. At one end of the room is a bed large enough for a whole family, and so high as almost to need a ladder to ascend it. The open pink curtains show the holy-water font, the crucifix, and faded palm branch annually renewed. There is no house without some religious symbol. The Basque has great faith in prayer. He stops his plough or wild native dance to say the Angelus. He never forgets to arm himself with the sign of the cross in a moment of danger. He makes it over the loaf of bread before he divides it among the family. The mother makes it on the foreheads of her children at night. At Candlemas a blessed candle burns under every roof in honor of the true Light which lighteth every man that cometh into the world. It is the boast of the country that Protestantism never found entrance therein, even during its prevalence in Béarn at the time of Joan of Navarre, though that princess took pains to have the Huguenot version of the New Testament translated into Basque and published at La Rochelle in 1591 for their benefit. The whole Bible is now translated, M. Duvoisin having devoted six years to the work, and Prince Lucian Bonaparte a still longer time in settling the orthography and superintending the edition.

It must not be supposed, however, that the Basques are an austere race. They are very fond of their national dances, and excel in the _jeu de paume_. Among their other amusements is the _pastorale_, acted in the open air with a _chirula_ (a kind of flute) and a tambourine for the orchestra. The subject is borrowed from the Bible, the legend of Roland, the wars with the Moors, etc. They are composed by native poets, and have a certain antique simplicity not without its charm. The people flock to these representations, as to their Cantabrian dances, in their gayest attire. The old man wears a _béret_ drawn over his forehead, while his long hair floats behind in token of the nobility of his ancient race. He wears short breeches, long woollen stockings, and leather shoes with handsome silver buckles.

The young Basque, straight, well formed, and proud in his bearing, wears his blue _béret_ jauntily perched on one side of his head. His jacket is short. Silver clasps fasten his collar and wristbands. He wears sandals on his feet, with red bars across the instep. A bright red sash girdles his waist--as of all mountaineers, enabling them to endure fatigue the better, like the surcingle of a horse. “Beware of that young man with the loose girdle,” said Sulla, speaking of Cæsar. For among the Romans the word _discinctus_ was applied to the indolent, cowardly soldier, as _alte cinctus_ (high-girdled) meant a prompt, courageous man.

The girls, slender in form, with regular, expressive features, are veiled in a black mantilla, or else carry it on their arms. A gay kerchief is wound around the back of their heads like a turban, leaving visible the shining bands of their beautiful black hair.

The old women wear white muslin kerchiefs on their heads, with one corner falling on the shoulder. On the breast is suspended a golden heart or _Saint-Esprit_. Sometimes they are enveloped from head to foot in a great black cloak, which is absolutely requisite when they attend a funeral. This mantle forms part of the _trousseau_ of every bride of any substance, and she wears it on her wedding-day, as if to show herself prepared to pay due honor to all the friends who should depart this life before her. It must be a great comfort for them to see this mourning garment prepared in advance, and the sight of the bride veiled in her long black capuchin must diffuse a rather subdued gayety over the wedding party.

The Basques pay great respect to the dead. When a man dies, his next neighbor on the right carries the crucifix before his bier in the funeral procession, and his nearest neighbor on the left walks at its side. And the whole neighborhood assembles around it in church, with lighted candles in their hands, to hear the Mass for the Dead. They adorn their graveyards with shrubs and flowers. And they never omit the month’s-mind, or anniversary service.

Of course no one goes to the Basque country without visiting the famous Pas de Roland. The whole region is singularly wild and picturesque. We pass through a deep gorge encumbered with rocks, over which the Nive plunges and foams in the maddest possible way. Twin mountains of granite rise to the very heavens, their sides covered with the golden broom, or furrowed with deep gullies that tell of mountain torrents. The overhanging cliffs, and the dizzy, winding road along the edge of the abyss, create a feeling of awe; and by the time we arrive, breathless and fatigued, at the Pas de Roland, we are quite prepared to believe anything marvellous.

“I lie reclined
Against some trunk the husbandman has felled;
Old legendary poems fill my mind,
And Parables of Eld:
I wander with Orlando through the wood,
Or muse with Jaques in his solitude.”

This archway was produced by a mere blow from the heel of the great Paladin, who did not consider the mountain worthy the use of his mighty sword. Everything is bathed in the golden light of the wondrous legend, which harmonizes with the spot. We even fancy we can hear the powerful horn of Orlando--the greatest trumpeter on record. We can see Carloman, with his black plumes and red mantle--opera-like--as he is described in the _Chant d’Altabisçar_! The natives, _pur sang_, do not call this pass by the name of Roland, but _Utheca gaiz_--a bad, dangerous passage, as in truth it is. It is the only means of communication with the opposite side of the mountain. After going through it, the mountains recede, the horizon expands, a country full of bucolic delights is revealed to the eye, the exaltation of the soul subsides, and the mind settles down to its normal state of incredulity.