Chapter II: “ay De Mi, Alhama!” (3)

But let us leave these historic details, and, turning back into the pleasanter paths of old romance, follow the Emperor Charlemagne along the valley of the Aude. A little south of the direct road from Carcassonne to Narbonne, we come to the village of La Grasse, of a thousand souls, in a deep valley of the Orbieu, surrounded by the rocky heights of the Corbières. This village grew up around a celebrated Benedictine Abbey that flourished here for more than a thousand years—one of the most important in Occitania. Its foundation is so remote that it has become the theme of many popular traditions. These are embodied in an old romance, said to have been written by Philomène, secretary of Charlemagne, by the emperor’s order, and under his inspection, and translated in the thirteenth century by William of Padua, a monk of La Grasse.

Charlemagne had just taken Carcassonne, where five towers bowed down before him. He founded several churches, such as St. Nazaire and St. Saturnin, and appointed Roger, a clerk of noble family, bishop of the place. Then he marched towards Narbonne, which was in possession of the Saracens, intending to besiege it. He had with him Pope Leo III., most of the cardinals, the patriarch of Jerusalem, Turpin, archbishop of Reims, and an infinite number of other prelates, abbots, and priests, together with Roland, Oliver, Oger the Dane, Solomon of Britanny, and Count Florestan his brother, and other famous paladins, with dukes, counts, and barons too many to enumerate. While traversing the valley of the Orbieu, one of the principal tributaries of the Aude, Archbishop Turpin came across seven hermits, viz., Thomas of Rouen, Richard of Pavia, Robert Prince of Hungary, Germain of Scotland, Alayran of Flanders, Philip of Cologne, and Bartholomew, son of the King of Egypt, who, after completing their studies at Paris, left the world in search of Christ and were led by angels to this solitary valley, where they built an oratory in honor of St. Mary the Virgin. Here they had lived for twenty years on herbs, roots, and wild fruit, and the people, in view of their thin, wasted aspect, as well as the arid country, called the place of their retreat the _Vallée Maigre_.

When Archbishop Turpin brought the emperor and Pope Leo III. to see these holy eremites, they shed an abundance of tears and rendered thanks unto God. Charlemagne resolved to erect a superb abbey in the place of their modest oratory, and so well did he endow it that the monks he established here were soon able to fertilize the wild valley to such a degree that its name, at the suggestion of Turpin and the Earl of Flanders, was appropriately changed to that of _La Vallée Grasse_.

During the erection of this monastery a series of combats took place between the Moors and the Christians, each one more marvellous than the other. First, Matrandus, King of Narbonne, suddenly came upon the encampment of the valley with a numerous army, but he was defeated by Charlemagne and pursued to the point where the Niel empties into the Orbieu. There he heard the sound of a mighty horn. It was the olifant of Roland, who was coming to his aid. He made the Saracens bite the dust by thousands, and Matrandus had barely time to take refuge in Narbonne and close the gates behind him.

Then an enemy far more redoubtable made his appearance. It was Marcilion, King of all Spain, accompanied by sixteen other kings, with seven hundred thousand men. Charlemagne had two hundred and forty thousand. The battle lasted five days. At length the Saracens were vanquished. Five hundred thousand of their number were slain, together with the sixteen kings, whereas the Christians only lost thirty-seven thousand, among whom, however, were five bishops, fourteen abbots, seven counts, eight hundred barons, and the Abbot of St. Denis, who, as he was breathing his last, besought the emperor to complete the abbey and bury him in it. His wishes were not disregarded. The abbey was completed. A church was built. In the church were many chapels, and in each chapel Archbishop Turpin, accompanied by many bishops and abbots, solemnly deposited sacred relics. It was now time to consider the appointment of the abbot, and while they were discussing the subject Marcilion reappeared, this time with only three hundred thousand horsemen, but Roland drove them before him into Roussillon, where he slew more than one hundred and seventy thousand men.

Then took place a fresh battle with Matrandus, and Roland, in a hand-to-hand encounter with Tamise, brother of the King of Narbonne, clove him in two like an acorn with Durandal, his unerring sword. In vain did the kings of Catalonia league together to avenge the death of Tamise. They slaughtered, it is true, the seven holy hermits, who, weary of the tumult in the valley of the Orbieu, had imprudently betaken themselves to another solitude, but they were repulsed by the abbot of La Grasse and his sixty monks with considerable loss. And yet they would rather, they said, have demolished the abbey than taken ten cities.

Several battles ensued beneath the walls of Narbonne before Charlemagne took that city, and after, in the course of which Roland clove in two Borrel de la Combe; Oliver clove in two Justeamundus, the brother-in-law of Matrandus; and Charlemagne himself performed the like exploit on Almanzor, King of Cordova. Durandal, Hauteclair, Joyeuse, and other famous swords mowed down the Saracens like ripe grain, cutting off heads and arms and legs, and causing such torrents of blood to flow that the infidels finally renounced all hostilities against the abbey of La Grasse.

During the night before the consecration of the abbatial church was to be made by the Pope, the Divine Redeemer, so runs the legend, himself vouchsafed to come down from heaven in person, accompanied by a multitude of angels, to consecrate the edifice. The following morning, when the Pope and Charlemagne and Archbishop Turpin saw the marks of divine consecration, they, as well as Roland and Oliver and the rest, shed tears of joy, and blessed God, and, while still weeping, took leave of the monks, begging to be remembered in their daily orisons.

Charlemagne now departed for Spain, to carry war in his turn into the country of the infidel, and with what prodigies of valor is known to all men. The memory of his passage through the valley of the Aude has never been effaced from the popular mind. The name of Roland, too, echoes all through this region, like the horn he won from the giant Jatmund. Not far from La Grasse is a cliff that still bears his name. It was here the great paladin, when weary of hewing in pieces the Saracens, used to come to take breath and whet his sword. The iron ring to which he fastened his steed Brigliadoro is still in its place, and no hand in these degenerate days is strong enough to wrench it from the rock. The people of this region, great lovers of the marvellous, tell how he used to gallop over the Montagne Noire on so fiery a steed that its feet shook the very mountains beneath them and left their imprint on the rocks, as may be seen to this day on the old road between Ilhes and Lastours. And a little higher up is a dolmen that bears the marks of his sword and the print of his hands. This dolmen is on a slight eminence near a little stream. The table is in the form of a disc about seven feet in diameter and one foot thick. It must weigh several hundred tons, and would require a great number of men of ordinary strength to place it on its present supports. The people say Roland, by way of amusement in his moments of leisure, hewed out this rock with his sword, and then used it as a quoit, which he threw with careless ease from La Valdous to Narbonne, and from Narbonne back to La Valdous. The prints of his mighty fingers are still clearly perceptible. It was he who set this light plaything up on its huge pillars, and not the Druids, and to this day it is called the _Palet de Roland_. Near by is a mysterious hole called Roland’s tomb, where the people insist he was buried, according to his express wish that he might repose in the place of his innocent amusements.

There are many of these Celtic monuments in this vicinity, the object of great conjecture among archæologists. The popular imagination is not so embarrassed, as we have seen. A legend is generally attached to them, often picturesque and dramatic. At Carnac, every one knows, it was St. Corneille who changed his pagan pursuers into monumental rocks by the petrifying influence of his wrathful visage.

On the banks of the Lamouse, a little creek in this region, is a tall colossus of a rock called the _peulvan_, that stands quite solitary on a little hill. It is, or _was_, fifteen feet high, a yard and a half broad, and not more than half a yard thick. The people say it descends to an inaccessible depth in the earth. If we may believe them, forty years ago it was no taller than a man, but it has grown higher and higher every year from some magic subterranean influence.

People who live among lofty mountains and dark forests, by noisy streams and waterfalls, or even on the borders of peaceful, dormant lakes whose mists fill the valleys and shroud the neighboring hills, are apt to be imaginative and dreamy. Here fairies and Undines have their origin. Here White Ladies, such as Scott has described in the valley of Glendearg, come forth in floating vapory robes to flit about the melancholy vales and fade away with the dawn. Such is the legend of Lake Puivert, according to which Reine Blanche, a princess of Aragon, issues every evening from her ancestral towers, and descends into the valley to breathe the freshness of the air. This legendary queen was no fair young princess who had become an untimely victim to melancholy—“sweetest melancholy”—but a dethroned queen, so infirm and decrepit as to have lost the very use of her limbs, and had come to end her days in the old manor-house of Puivert, where she had been born. A crowd of servants surrounded her day and night, attentive to her slightest caprice. Every evening at set of sun a herald ascended to the battlements of the tower to proclaim the coming forth of Lady Blanche. No sooner had the echoes of his horn died away than she appeared at the principal gate, borne on a litter by four stout men. If the weather was calm and the sky clear, she was taken to a huge block of marble that rose out of the edge of the lake, where she loved to breathe the freshness of the night air and the resinous odor of the old pines that grew on the mountain above. Two pages in purple waved great fans to keep off the insects. There was nothing to disturb the delicious solitude but the swallows that skimmed over the surface of the lake and the murmuring rivulets that came down from the hills, and here she would remain in silent reverie till the light faded completely away, when she was borne back to her tower by the light of torches. It frequently happened, however, that the lake was so swollen by storms that her marble throne was entirely submerged. Then she went to the chapel of Our Lady of _Bon-Secours_ to pray the wrath of the threatening waters might be stayed. One day she conceived the idea of piercing an immense rock that closed the entrance to the valley, hoping by this means to let off the surplus waters and keep the lake always at the same level, but, alas! at the very moment when she thought her wishes were to be crowned with success, the pressure of the waters against the weakened base of the rock overthrew it, and, rushing through the narrow gorge, overwhelmed serfs, pages, and La Reine Blanche herself. Such is the legendary cause assigned for the rupture of Lake Puivert in 1279, which destroyed the neighboring town of Mirepoix. The feudal manor-house, so well known in the history of the country, escaped, being on an elevation. It is still haunted by the troubled spirit of Queen Blanche, who, in misty white garments, may be seen at nightfall flitting about the low valley, wringing her pale hands over the ruin she caused.

Nor is this Queen of Aragon the only White Lady of the land. The old people of Limoux tell of women in white who once a year come forth by night from a crystal palace in the bowels of the neighboring hill of Taich, and go to the fountain of Las Encantados—the fairies—where with a golden spatula they beat their linen, after the fashion of the country, till the dawn of day. These ghostly laundresses are not confined to the valley of the Aude. In Brittany and Normandy they likewise haunt many regions, but they beat their linen with an iron hand, which they do not hesitate to apply to the ear of the curious intruder.

On the side of a steep hill that descends to the Rebenty, another branch of the Aude, are three narrow arches to the cave of Las Encantados—the grotto of the fairies—where, in the depths, the noise of the turbulent stream is repeated by subterranean echoes, and changed, now into a soft harmonious murmur and now into a solemn roar, giving the effect of an organ in a cathedral. Nothing could be more impressive by night than this mysterious music, which the people formerly ascribed to some weird influence.

But to return to the royal foundation of La Vallée Grasse. That this abbey was really founded under the patronage of Charlemagne is proved by a charter of the year 778, still preserved in the prefecture at Carcassonne, signed with his own imperial monogram. According to this, the name of the first abbot was Nimphridius; and the house appears to have been so well endowed that it held lands and livings and seigneuries, not only throughout the province, but on the other side of the Pyrenees. Louis le Débonnaire took it under his special protection, together with three cells dependent thereon, to wit: St. Cucufat on the banks of the Aude, St. Pierre on the Clamoux, and La Palme on the seashore. In fact, favor towards it seemed hereditary in the Carlovingian race. Louis IX. kept up the tradition, and when in Palestine wrote to his mother and the sénéchal of Carcassonne, recommending the abbey of La Grasse to their protection. The kings of Aragon, too, respected its extensive domains in their realm.

The grateful abbey never forgot its illustrious founder. Every morning at the conventual Mass the bread and wine were offered by the lord abbot, or his representative, at the Offertory, for the repose of Charlemagne’s soul, till authorized to render him the cultus due to a saint, from which time the twenty-eighth of January was kept in his honor as a festival of the first class.

It is one of the traditions of this monastery that, when Pope Leo III. was about to dedicate the church, he received a supernatural warning that it had been miraculously consecrated, and on approaching the altar he discovered the marks of the divine hand, which remained visible till the end of the fourteenth century, when the greater part of the church was consumed by fire. It was then rebuilt in a style corresponding to the wealth of the abbey, with numerous chapels, a choir with rare carvings, and a silver retablo with twelve silver statues in the niches, all plated with pure gold. The monastic buildings were surrounded by fortified walls of vast circuit. They were grouped around an immense cloister, the arcades of which were supported by marble columns. On the east side were the church, dormitories, infirmary, and rooms for visitors. At the north were the abbot’s spacious residence, the granary, bakery, stables, etc. South and west were the chapterhouse, the large refectory, and houses appropriated to the aged monks. A hospital, where the poor were fed and sick strangers received gratuitous care, was further off, near the principal gate. There was an extensive park, with avenues of chestnut-trees, watered by the Orbieu, which also turned the grist-mills, oil-mills, and cloth-mills. The water was also brought into the abbey. The library now forms part of the public library of Carcassonne.

The abbey of La Grasse was immediately dependent on the Holy See, in acknowledgment of which it paid an annual tribute of five gold florins. And the Bishop of Carcassonne, and the Archbishop of Narbonne, though the primate, were obliged to recognize its independence of their jurisdiction before they could obtain admittance to the abbey. The abbot from the time of Abbot Nicolas Roger, the uncle of Pope Clement VI., had the right of wearing pontifical vestments. He held legal jurisdiction over eighty-three towns, besides which, three other abbeys, three monasteries, twenty-four priories, and sixty-seven parish churches were dependent on the house of La Grasse.

This great abbey was suppressed in 1790, after existing over a thousand years, and before long was transformed into barracks and manufactories. The church became a melancholy ruin, with its columns lying among the tall grass, the capitals covered with lichens, bushes growing in among the crumbling walls, and here and there scattered mutilated escutcheons of the old lords of the land and the very bones from their sepulchres.

But the town of La Grasse, that sprang up under the mild sway of the old abbots, is still queen of the lower Corbières by its population and historic interest. It is noted for its _blanquette_—a sparkling white wine, which rivals that of Limoux.

As to the battles in the valley of the Orbieu, it is more certain that the Saracens, on their way to attack Carcassonne, were met by William, Duke of Aquitaine, in this valley, where, though defeated, he performed prodigies of valor, and made the followers of Mahound buy their victory dearly. They soon withdrew into Spain, carrying with them rich spoils from Narbonne, among which were seven statues of silver, long famous in Andalusia, and many marble columns, still to be seen in the famous mosque of Cordova, on which they forced the vast number of prisoners they carried with them to labor.

Nor was the abbey of La Grasse the only famous monastery of this region. There was the Cistercian abbey of Fonfroide, founded in the twelfth century by Ermengarde, Vicomtesse of Narbonne, to whom Pierre Roger, the troubadour, gave the mystic name of _Tort n’avez_, and so well known from the permanent Court of Love she held in her gay capital. This abbey at one time contained two hundred monks, who were great agriculturists, and understood drainage and all the improvements we regard as modern. They brought vast tracts of land under cultivation, and, by their industry and economy, became wealthy and powerful. In 1341, this abbey had nineteen thousand two hundred and thirty-four animals, including sheep, cattle, mules, swine, etc.

Among the celebrated monks of Fonfroide was Peter of Castelnau, whom the Holy See appointed one of the legates to suppress the heresy of the Albigenses, and who acquired so melancholy a celebrity by his conflicts with Count Raymond of Toulouse and his tragical end. Another member, eminent for his knowledge and piety, of this house was Arnaud de Novelli, uncle of Pope Benedict XII. He was made cardinal by Pope Clement V., and sent as one of the legates to England to make peace between Edward II. and his barons. He died in 1317, and lies buried under the high altar of the abbey church. Pope Benedict XII. himself was a monk at Fonfroide, and succeeded his uncle as abbot of the house. As pope, he is specially celebrated for the part he took among the theologians of the day in discussing the question of the immediate state of the righteous after death, and the decretal which he finally issued in 1355—_Benedictus Dominus in sanctis suis_—in which he declares that the souls of the justified, on leaving their bodies, are at once admitted to behold the Divine Essence face to face without intermediary; that by this vision they are rendered truly happy, and in enjoyment of everlasting repose; whereas those who die in the state of mortal sin descend immediately into hell.

The abbey of Fonfroide, after seven hundred years’ existence, was closed in 1790, but, more fortunate than La Grasse, it is now inhabited by Bernardins, who seem to have inherited the virtues and spirit of the early Cistercians.

The tombs of the old vicomtes of Narbonne, who were mostly buried here, are no longer to be seen. William II., by an act of May 25, 1424, ordered his remains to be taken to Fonfroide, wherever he might die. He left two thousand livres for his tomb, which was to be of stone and magnificently adorned, and an annuity of twenty-five livres as a foundation for a daily Mass for the repose of his soul. He was killed by the English at the battle of Verneuil, the following August; his body was fastened to a gibbet, and had to be ransomed before it could be brought to Fonfroide.

Another noted abbey of the country was that of St. Hilaire, built over the tomb of its patron saint—not St. Hilary of Arles, who walked all the way to Rome in the dead of winter, but the first bishop of Carcassonne, who never walked anywhere, dead or alive—at least, out of his own diocese. This abbey was built in the good old days of Charlemagne, who seems to have never missed an opportunity of building a church or endowing a monastery—if we are to believe all the traditions of France—and of course endowed this one. However, Roger I., Count of Carcassonne, enriched it still more. He never went into battle without invoking St. Hilaire, and to him he ascribed the success of his arms. In his gratitude, he had the body of the saint exhumed and placed in a beautiful tomb of sculptured marble, and promised to furnish the twelve monks—all there were at that time—with suitable clothing during the remainder of his life, which says very little in favor of Charlemagne’s endowment. The abbey ultimately became very prosperous, and, among other possessions, owned the most of Limoux. It lost its importance, however, in the sixteenth century, and was finally secularized. In one of the rooms may still be seen the names of its fifty abbots. The beautiful cloister of the fourteenth century is well preserved, and the tomb of St. Hilaire, with its sculptures of the tenth century, representing the legend of St. Saturnin, still serves as the altar of the church. The abbey stands in a bend of the Lauquet, that has escaped from the Aude, with its little village around it, among low hills covered with excellent vineyards. Here blow alternately the Cers and the Marin, the only two winds known in the valley of the Aude, shut in as it is between the Montagne Noire on the north and the Corbières on the south. These winds blow with alternate violence, like two great guns, the greater part of the year, and when one dies away the other generally takes up the blast. The very trees are planted with reference to them. People who would live according to the Delphic principle of “not too much of anything,” should not come to the valley of the Aude. The Cers increases in violence as it approaches the sea, where it seems to put on the very airs of the great planet Jupiter itself, noted for the violence of its winds; whereas the Marin waits till it gets away from the sound of “the jawing wave” before it ventures to come out in its full strength. However, as people often take pride in displaying their very infirmities, as if desirous of being noted for something, so the inhabitants of this valley boast of their winds. They did the same in the days of Seneca the philosopher, who says that though the Circius, or Cers, overthrew the very buildings, the people of Gaul still praised it, and thought they were indebted to it for the salubrity of their climate. Perhaps they acted on the principle of Augustus Cæsar, who erected an altar to propitiate the Circius when he was in Gaul, so much did he dread it.

The canal of Languedoc passes through the valley of the Aude. Of course the grand idea of uniting the two seas could have originated with no less a person than Charlemagne himself. Francis the First also agitated the question. The principle on which canals are constructed was known in the Middle Ages. That universal genius, Leonardo da Vinci, was the first to make a practical application of it. In spite of this, the canal of Languedoc required a century and a half of profound study on the part of men of talent before it was decided on. The difficulty of its construction can hardly be realized in these days. It was not till the time of Louis XIV. the work was undertaken by M. de Riquet, who brought down waters from the Montagne Noire to feed the basins in the valley of the Aude. The whole canal was built in seventeen years, and cost about seventeen millions of livres. He did not live to see it opened. That satisfaction was reserved for his sons. The people awaited the day with impatience, and when it was opened, May 15, 1681, there was one great outburst of joy and admiration all the way from the Garonne to the Mediterranean. The intendant of the province, and all the capitouls of Toulouse, assembled in the morning in the cathedral of that city. The archbishop officiated. Nor was M. Riquet forgotten amid the thanksgiving. His sons were present. And at the close of Mass, the archbishop turned and said: Brethren, let us pray for the repose of the soul of Pierre Paul de Riquet. Every head bent a few moments in silent prayer for the benefactor of the country.

A richly carpeted bark, from which floated the national colors, had been prepared. The Abbot of St. Jernin solemnly blessed the waters of the canal, and the dignitaries set out amid the applause of the multitude, followed by two other barks filled with musicians. At Castelnaudary, Cardinal de Bonzi, with several other prelates and lords, joined them in a magnificent galley, amid the noise of cannon and the peal of trumpets, followed by twenty barks full of merchandise. It was not till May 24 this flotilla arrived at Béziers, where it was hailed, as all along the way, with salutes and cries of joy. These demonstrations were warranted by the immense benefit of the canal to the country, and though now in a great measure superseded by the railway, it is still of the greatest utility.

Before the Aude reaches Carcassonne, it flows directly through the pretty, industrious town of Limoux, where the shores are connected by an old Roman bridge. Four hills enclose the charming valley, on the sides of which grow the vines that yield the _blanquette_ of Limoux, which is famous in the wine market. On one of these hills stands a rural chapel held in great veneration by the people around—that of _Notre Dame de Marceille_, one of the most frequented places of pilgrimage in southern France, which has been sung by poets, studied by archæologists, and sketched by artists. Nothing could be lovelier than its situation. From the plateau around the chapel you look down on the Flacian valley, watered by the Aude. To the west are the walls of Limoux in the midst of its vineyards and manufactories. Further off are bare cliffs and wooded hills, while on the very edge of the horizon rise, like an army of giants, the summits of the Pyrenees, almost always covered with snow or shrouded in mist. What a variety of temperature and products this landscape embraces—the cold mountain summit and the heat of the plain, verdant heights and naked rocks, the frowning hills and joyous valleys, gloomy forests of pines and frolicsome vines, fresh meadows and fields of golden grain! Through all this flows the Aude, past old legendary castles now in ruins, along marvellous grottoes a sibyl might envy, its current spanned by bridges with their tutelar Madonnas, but not disdaining to turn the wheels of the petty industries below us, though it has its source amid impassable gulfs among yonder peaks lost in the clouds.

A paved _rampe_ leads up the hillside to _Notre Dame de Marceille_, more than six hundred feet long, which the pilgrims ascend on their knees, praying as they go. Half-way up, they stop to rest beside a trickling fountain and drink of the water that falls drop by drop. On the arch above is the inscription in letters of gold:

“_Mille mali species Virgo levavit aqua._”[172]

The present church dates from 1488, but a sanctuary is known to have existed here as early as 1011. From age to age it has been the object of ever increasing veneration among the people. It belonged at one time to the abbey of St. Hilaire, but in 1207 passed into the hands of the Dominicans of Prouilhe. You enter by a porch, which is supported by slender columns that give it an air of elegance. On the front is inscribed:

“Stay, traveller: adore God, invoke Mary.”

And on the sides:

“O Jesus, we have merited thy wrath. Efface from our hearts
every stain of sin, that they may be rendered worthy to
become thy dwelling-place!”

“Spotless Maid, Virgin Mother, on whom the Almighty lavishes the gifts of his love, with him, with thee, bring us by thy prayers to dwell for ever in the celestial abode.”

Another fountain near the porch bears also its inscription:

_Hic putens fons signatus. Parit unda salutem.
Aeger junge fidem. Sic bibe, sarnus eris._

During the cholera of 1855 more than sixty thousand pilgrims flocked to this chapel in the space of three weeks. All the priests of the diocese come here annually to celebrate the mysteries of religion, especially in the month of September when it is most frequented. Then the holy hill is covered by the ascending pilgrims, the chapel is illuminated, the bells are rung, and group after group from different villages enter to pray and sing their pious hymns, which have a certain wild flavor that is delightful. Their varied attitudes and costumes, the rude melody of their voices, the numerous bas-reliefs and paintings on the walls, the altar of the Virgin hung with ex-votos, and the robes of the Madonna herself, overloaded with ornaments of gold and silver which sparkle in the countless tapers, make up a picture one is never weary of studying.

It was on descending from this consecrated hill we stopped to look back at the sanctuary whence streamed still the soul-stirring hymns. A group was gathered about the archway of the fountain. The base was aflush with the vines. From Limoux came the sound of earthly cares. Harvests covered the plain. The heavens aglow crowned all. It was here we took leave of the Valley of the Aude.

[172] By this water the Virgin has cured a thousand ills.

FREE TRANSLATION OF A CHORUS IN THE “HECUBA” OF EURIPIDES.

BY AUBREY DE VERE.

Thou of the ten years’ war!
City of marble palaces—no more
Hard by the mountains art thou throned a Queen,
Beside the sounding shore.
Where is thy crown of olives ever-green?
How is thy regal head with anguish bowed!
Ah! woe is me, enveloped in a cloud
Of leaguering foemen are thy smoking walls,
Blood-stained and desolate thy halls.

In the deep hush of night
Fate fell upon us … in the hour of joy;
In the first flush of our triumphant might,
Glory, and Victory.
The bowl was circling, and the festive floor
With wild flowers sprinkled o’er.
We wove the mazy dance in choral bands,
With eyes responsive and united hands
And thrilling melodies.

My husband on the bed,
Warrior out-worn, was lying; and his breast
Filled with the dewy rest:
For thou, O raven-plumed power,
Wert o’er him waving thy Lethean wings,
Flinging thy poppied odors o’er
His languid breast and eyes;
All grateful rites complete, and pious sacrifice.

But I my ringlets dark
(A young and happy bride)
Was braiding, not unconscious of my charms,
Before the mirror wide:
Now for the first time freed from war’s alarms
To lay me by his side
Whose breast was filled with dreams of peace:—but hush!
A long and piercing cry
Comes ringing thro’ the sky,
A sound of struggling men and clashing arms.

With robe unbound—with hair
Streaming upon the air;
Zoneless as Spartan maid, Pallas, to thee;
O Virgin Deity!
I rush in tearless agony—I bear
The maids’ and matrons’ prayer.
In vain—ah! what availed
Those wild embraces or that mute despair?
Ah! what availed? These eyes, these eyes beheld
The husband slaughtered on the household hearth
In sight of all his gods; but when the wave
With its unheeding rave,
Was bearing me from thee, my place of birth,
As from mine eye down sank high tower and gate,
Ruined and desolate.…
At last my agony
Burst forth into one long and fainting cry—
I fell upon my face—I knew myself a slave.

LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER

(FROM THE FRENCH.)

APRIL 22.

Yesterday was the day which the Lord hath made, the day of happiness and of rejoicing in God. Rose at half-past three, and was at Ste. Croix before the time. Kneeling by René, my heart overflowing with felicity, I enjoyed during those too rapid moments all the delights of the Christian life. The procession and Benediction were magnificent; everything that has relation to worship, here possesses a unique and impressive solemnity. Heard two Masses, and then that of the Paschal Communion of the men. I love this spectacle—these long files of communicants, so eloquent a protest against the impieties of the age! Was present at High Mass. Dear Kate! congratulate your Georgina: taking all together, I spent nine hours yesterday in church. But my day was much less sanctified in reality than in appearance; I am so easily distracted. The music transported and the crowds bewildered me. Monseigneur officiated pontifically at the High Mass, after which we had the Papal Benediction. The sermon pleased me much. “When Christ shall be glorified, you also shall be glorified with him.” It was sweet and comforting to hear, and I was greatly touched. “The measure of your sufferings here below is the measure of the happiness which God has in store for you. Our body will be glorified by the absence of all suffering; our understanding, by the Beatific Vision; our heart, by the possession of every possible happiness and felicity; our will, by the accomplishment of its desires. God will to all eternity do the will of his saints.” Then the Benediction, the procession chanting the _Laudate Pueri_ and the _In exitu Israël_, the hymn of deliverance—what splendor! O festival of Easter! so solemn and so beautiful, how dear thou art to me.

And so Lent is over, and, to indemnify me for my long fast, here is a letter from my Kate. I read it on my knees, like a prayer, and afterwards aloud to the assembled family (except, of course, the private details). It is settled that we are all to be present when you take the veil. Kate dearest! my elder sister, my second mother, who have imparted to me so much of your own soul, the blessed thought of you follows me at every step.

Mme. de T—— has made splendid presents to all her children. I like this fraternal custom. We had been secretly preparing the prettiest surprises imaginable, and in the morning saluted each other as they do in Poland: “Christ is risen!” René has presented me with two beautiful volumes, a novelty, a marvel—the _Récit d’une Sœur_, by Mrs. Craven, _née_ de la Ferronays. Call to your remembrance one of our loveliest days in Italy, at the Palazzo Borghese, where this family long remained; we have often spoken of it since. This is such attractive reading that it costs me a great effort to tear myself from the book. The weather is glorious; we take long walks through gardens full of lilacs in blossom. O spring! the renewal, the awakening of nature, how sweet and fair it is, and with what joy I have hailed its coming! The children are not to be kept within the house any longer; they are caged birds prettily fluttering their wings against the bars until they are free in the fields.[173] Little whisperings are made to Aunt Georgina to receive into her _coupé_ these darling nightingales. Excursions are to be the order of the week.

Our poor have largely shared in our Paschal rejoicings. I took Picciola with me to see Benoni. What a festival it was to her kind heart! She had laden herself with playthings, cakes, and bonbons, and, in a spirit of heroic sacrifice, with a pretty cage which she sat great store by, in which sang two canaries. The joy of the poor family was surpassed by the sweet child’s delight. I watched her with admiration as she went to and fro in the lowly abode, warbling with the _brother of the little Jesus_, as she calls the darling. What a sunbeam in this dwelling! I wish Madeleine were my daughter. Kate dearest, pray that my wishes may be realized. I am writing to you in my room, near the open window. A delicious perfume of lilac fills the air; I love nothing in the world so much as children and flowers. Lately I have frequently made Alix play. My sister-in-law Johanna has had a severe cold, and I have laid claim to her pretty family during their recreations. Marguerite, the eldest of the little girls, is not more than eight years old, and is always called Lady Sensible, which makes her cheeks glow with pleasure. Alix is four; she is fresh as a rose of May. I love to press my lips against her pure forehead, and imbue myself with the soft innocence which exhales from this young soul. With her deep-blue eyes, her thick, fair hair, and her angel-look, Alix is really charming, and it seems to me that if she were mine I should have floods of tenderness to shed upon her.

Monseigneur is about to leave for Rome. I shall be presented to him before his departure. _Au revoir_, dear Kate! May God protect us! When shall I see Ireland again? When shall I return to the land from whence my ancestors, those sons of a royal race, were banished? The faith is worth more than a throne.

APRIL 29.

René has undertaken to give you an account of my presentation, dearest Kate, so I need not say anything about it. Nothing is spoken of here but the dead and dying. Mme. de St. M—— has lost her two little girls in two days; it makes one tremble. I have sent Fanny your letter of Wednesday; it seemed as if I should profane your holy pages by transcribing them. Our friends wrote to me yesterday; you ought to have read their letters before I did. Lady W—— tells me that she shall treasure like a relic the consolations of Kate. Dearest, you say well that this world could not be fit for our sweet Mary; but your aspirations after eternity alarm your earthly Georgina. Live to love me, to be my guardian angel!

You will not read _Le Récit d’une Sœur_, dear, busy one? This book contains beauties of the highest order; it is like the expression of the splendor of the beautiful. How those hearts loved, and how much they suffered! But love like theirs must give strength to bear such sufferings. How can I describe to you these incomparable volumes? Your faithful memory has well recalled to you all the personages; imagine, then, the mutual outpourings of those great souls, the marriage of Albert and Alexandrine, so closely followed by so much heart-rending anguish; that family, so numerous and so united, and which appeared to have so many titles to happiness, seeing death descend upon their happy home, gradually destroying and pitilessly mowing down those fair lives. Albert first of all—the gentle, tender, pious, poetic Albert—dying on the 29th of June, 1836, after two years of married life and four years of the most pure and sanctified love; then the Count de la Ferronays, that noble figure, that grand character, a soul of antiquity moulded in a Christian heart, who died at Rome on the 17th of January, 1842, and obtained immediately a miraculous conversion—an endless consolation for those who wept for him; Eugénie, so saintly, so detached from the world, the most loving and devoted of sisters, died next, far from all her own people, at Palermo, whose mild climate had failed to restore strength to that fading flower; a year after, at Brussels, on the 10th of February, the pure and beautiful Olga; in 1848, on the 9th of February, Alexandrine, the most attractive heroine of this narrative, the inconsolable widow, mounting to such heights in the love of God that she would have refused to live over again the happiness of her union with Albert—an exceptionally saintly soul, full of heroic devotion, since she offered her life to God—who accepted the offering—for that of the Père de Ravignan; and, lastly, Mme. de la Ferronays, the mother, the wife who had been, as it were, on the cross for so many years, and always serene, always generous, dying in the arms of her Pauline on the 14th of November, 1848, the same year as her daughter-in-law. By the side of these souls who have passed away figure several personages of the time: M. de Montalembert, the intimate friend of Albert, and the ever-faithful friend of Alexandrine, whom he called his “sister”; M. Gerbet, the author of _L’Esquisse de Rome Chrétienne_;[174] Père Lacordaire, Mme. Swetchine, Père de Ravignan, Confalonieri, the learned M. Rio—all this related by _a sister_, Mrs. Craven, of whom Mme. —— spoke to us so much. Remark these two thoughts from St. Augustine: one, the motto, is, “We never lose those whom we love in him whom we can never lose”; the other, written by Albert in his journal and several times underlined: “All which ends is not long.” There is also this other, of Alexandrine’s: “I do not believe that affections are injurious to affections. Our soul is made in the image of God, and in her power of loving she possesses something of the infinite.” What a family!—an assembly of chosen souls, all of them winning and sympathetic, all knowing how to love as those souls only know who love God above all things. I should like to know Mrs. Craven. I pity and admire her: I pity her for having seen all those die whom she so loved, for having witnessed the departure of souls so intimately united that they were as if melted into one alone; I admire her for having had the power of retracing so many memories at the same time sweet and distressing, and which at every page must have renewed her grief. Is not Albert’s offering of his life for the conversion of Alexandrine the most admirable type of Christian love?

We are going to _eternize_ ourselves at Orleans, dear Kate. My mother-in-law finds the _Rue Jeanne d’Arc_ very agreeable; the children attend some of the cours.[175] We are not too far from the capital; all say in chorus, It is good to be here! When I say _all_, I except the gentlemen, who, in their hearts, prefer the country, but do not say a word to that effect.

A letter from Margaret, charmed to be at Rome, “that fatherland of sorrow.” Amid the ruins of the queen of cities she walks with her immense disappointment. Oh! what trial. No woman better deserves to be loved. Do you remember Mère Athanase saying of Margaret: “Beautiful as Eve in Paradise, attractive as Rachel, a musician like Miriam the sister of Moses, she is also learned as Anna Comnena, and a poetess like Marie de France”? I answered: “May I be the good Samaritan to this wounded soul!”

_Duchesse_ is much afflicted; a new frock _quite untakable_, as she says, is the cause. On Marguerite’s gravely asking, “Is not Thérèse going out again? what misfortune has happened to her?” Arthur replied: “Lady Sensible, look well at Thérèse; there is a wrinkle on her forehead. She has lost … her toilette.” And the giddy boy twirled Marguerite round and round, who cannot understand, serious little thing that she is, how any one should be in trouble for so small a matter. This reminds me of the following verses, copied by Hélène in her journal:

“Un frais cottage anglais, voilà sa Thébaïde
Et si son front de nacre est marqué d’une ridé,
Ce n’est pas, croyez moi, qu’elle songe à la mort;
Pour craindre quelque chose, elle est trop esprit fort.
Mais c’est que de Paris une robe attendue,
Arrive chiffonnée et de taches perdue.”[176]

A thousand kisses to my Kate.

MAY 3.

O month of graces and of heavenly favors, how I welcome your return! To-day, my beloved Kate, René and I have piously celebrated the anniversary of your birth. May God bless you, my very dear one, and may he bless all that you do! Oh! how many times have I thanked God that he has granted me to receive the love that Joseph had for Benjamin. Kate, I am too happy. Ask our Lord that I may not lose the fragrance of these days of peace and gladness; that I may not be an unprofitable servant; that I may do good, much good; that I may labor for the salvation of souls. O souls, souls! You know how, when a child, I cried when I found that I could not be a missionary. I wanted to be one of the laborers among the _whitening harvests_. I have kept my desire, and René shares my aspirations. Adrien, who heard us yesterday talking together, called out: “Quick, quick! a professor of Hindostani and Chinese for these two apostles.” My mother-in-law was very much amused by this sally, and the conversation became general. A good work has come out of it: there were in the house only four associates of the Propagation of the Faith, and now there are thirty, and I am chief of the _dizaines_, or sets of ten, by unanimous vote. It is not to Asiatic idolaters that I am desirous of preaching the Gospel, but, wherever my duty shall place me, to those who are ignorant of it; and by way of a beginning I have this winter been teaching the catechism to three little children, beggars by profession. I shall continue the same thing in Brittany. Dearest, can I do too much for Him who overwhelms me with such magnificent profusion?

The opening of the month of Mary has been very beautiful; the altar splendidly lighted; lovely hymns. Noted an enchanting voice of a young girl, which caused me some distractions.… Kate, where is our dear oratory in Ireland, and my place close to yours? My country, my country! Some one has said, Our country is the place where we love. The true country and fatherland of the Christian is heaven. René speaks like an angel of the love of heaven, and this, too, makes me afraid. Oh! how well I understand the saying of Eugénie de Guérin, ‘The heart so longs to immortalize what it loves’—that is to say, the heart would fain have no separation, but life or death with the object of its love. Dear Kate, to whom I owe my happiness, may this day be always blest!

I leave you now, as my mother-in-law sends Picciola to request my company. “If,” says the gentle little ambassadress, “it is to Madame Kate that you are writing, tell her especially that I love her with all my heart; and let me put a kiss upon the page.”

By the side of this sweet, pure kiss I place my tender messages, or rather _ours_, loving you as we both do.

MAY 6.

The spiritual enjoyments of this fairest of months are infinitely sweet to me, my sister. I had minutely described your oratory to Lucy and Hélène, and these two affectionate girls have prepared me a heartfelt enjoyment. In a small, unoccupied drawing-room I found all my souvenirs of Ireland, … all … excepting only your dear presence, my devoted Kate. Tell me how it is that so many hearts agree together in strewing with flowers the path of your Georgina.

The _Odeurs de Paris_, by Louis Veuillot, is much spoken of. This book is a sequel to the _Parfum de Rome_—a sort of set-off or contrast between the unseemliness of Babylon and the beauties of Sion. I wanted to read it, but Adrien dissuaded me, and René read me the preface, which contains some remarkable thoughts. The modern Juvenal says of Paris: “A city without a past, full of minds without memories, of hearts without tears, of souls without love”; and elsewhere: “To paint Paris, Rousseau discovered the suitable expression of ‘a desert of men.’” There is also a touching complaint respecting the continual confusion and, as it were, overturning of this city, which Gabourd calls the city of the Sovereign People: “Who will dwell in the paternal house? Who will find again the roof which sheltered his earliest years?…” Read the _Souvenirs_ of Mme. Récamier, and _Marie-Thérèse_, by Nettement. The latter is written with a royalist and Christian enthusiasm which delighted me. My mother-in-law is passionately fond of poetry, and has selected me as reader. I am gradually becoming her pet bird; she is so kind and good in her continual solicitude for _her youngest daughter_! Master Arthur, _l’enfant terrible_, confided to Picciola that I was grandmamma’s _spoiled child_. The fact is that, having my time more free than my sisters-in-law, who are absorbed by their maternal cares, I can occupy myself more in anything which may please Mme. de T——, whose innate refinement knows how to appreciate the smallest attentions. Then, yesterday my mother-in-law sent me a nice little packet, carefully sealed; guess what I found in it? A Shakspere and a Lamartine, bound with my monogram, and a choice little volume by Marie Jenna, a name which pleases me. This is full of heavenly poetry. There are pieces which are worth their weight in gold, if gold could pay for this delicious efflorescence of the poet’s soul. How I love Lamartine when he says:

“Moi-même, plein des biens dont l’opulence abonde,
Que j’échangerais volontiers
Cet or dont la fortune avec dédain m’inonde
Pour une heure du temps où je n’avais au monde
Que ma vigne et que mon figuier!
Pour ces songes divins qui chantaient en mon âme
Et que nul or ne peut payer!”[177]

Ah! yes; no happiness is worth the happiness of loving and praising God.

Hélène waited for the month of Mary to reveal her beautiful vocation to her mother—this choice of heaven which will necessarily be at the same time the glory and the martyrdom of our hearts. None of the austerities of her future life will take by surprise the newly-chosen one; she has prepared herself for everything. It is on the 10th, four days hence, that she will speak.… Help us with your prayers, my dearest Kate!…

I am hastening off with René to _Sainte Croix_. A thousand loving messages.

MAY 9.