Chapter XI: A Morning with St. Peter (11)

Tradition says Soulac was once important as a port, and alive with commercial activity. Henry III. of England embarked at old Soulac for Portsmouth about the middle of the thirteenth century, which shows how extensive have been the sand deposits since. Once the church was so near the water that in great storms the foundations were washed by the waves, though built on a slight acclivity. It appears by documents still preserved at Bordeaux that the sands in 1748 covered the greater part of Soulac, causing the loss of many salt marshes and other sources of revenue. Many other parishes on the shores of Médoc have wholly disappeared. The church of La Canau was rebuilt three times before the moving sands. Sainte Hélène has transported hers ten kilometres, leaving behind what is now an islet with a few trees to mark the spot where it once stood, still called by the people Senta Lénotte, or Ste. Hélenotte—that is, little St. Helen.

St. Pierre de Lignan, or, as called in old titles, Sanctus Petrus in Ligno—St. Peter on the Wood, or Cross—said to have been originally built by Zaccheus, or St. Amadour, in memory of the martyrdom of the apostle, which he had witnessed at Rome, has been abandoned two hundred years, and now lies under the waves of the ocean.

Pauillac, sung by Ausonius in his epistle to Théon:

“_Pauliacus tanti non mihi villa foret_,”

is likewise half-buried in the sands.

But to return to Soulac. The thirteenth century was the most glorious era in the history of Notre Dame de la Fin des Terres. Its popularity was at that time increased by a terrible pestilence that visited Médoc. The people had recourse to prayer, and went in crowds to the sanctuary of Soulac, vowing to renew their pilgrimage annually. The most noted of these pilgrimages was that of Lesparre, a small town which excited our interest by its reminiscences of the English occupation of the country. Its ruined fortifications; the square tower, sole remnant of the ancient castle, and the church with its Saxon arches and coarse sculpture—all bespeak great antiquity. In the twelfth century the castle and village around it were held by Baron Eyquem, a contentious lord, who liked nothing better than a brush with his neighbors. Perhaps it was this quarrelsome turn of mind that recommended the lords of Lesparre so strongly to the favor of the English sovereigns. Henry III. of England summoned Baron Eyquem to his aid at Paris. The baron’s son also served the same king with all the forces he could muster, and Henry so counted on his devotedness that, in 1244, after promising to reward his services, he commissioned him to aid by his sword and counsel in repelling the King of Navarre, who had invaded Guienne. During the entire contest between England and France the Sires of Lesparre remained faithful to the English; and when the last hour of English rule in the country sounded, the Baron de Lesparre took the lead in an effort to replace Guienne under its dominion. He went secretly to England with the lord of Candale and several notable citizens of Bordeaux to assure the king that the whole country would rise in his favor as soon as the banner of St. George should be once more seen on the Gironde. The English eagerly responded by sending the valiant Earl of Shrewsbury,

“The Frenchman’s only scourge,
Their kingdom’s terror, and black Nemesis,”

to Bordeaux, but their last chance was lost by the defeat at Castillon in 1453, in which the gallant old earl, immortalized by Shakspere—doubly immortalized—was slain. The Baron de Lesparre was banished, and the following year beheaded at Poitiers for breaking his bounds. Charles VII. of France then gave the Seigneurie de Lesparre to the Sire d’Albret, to whom in part he owed the triumph of his arms.

Lesparre having lost two-thirds of its inhabitants by a pestilence, the remainder, in their terror, went to prostrate themselves before the altar of Notre Dame de la Fin des Terres, and made a solemn vow to return every year, if spared. The account of this annual pilgrimage reminds one of the caravans of the desert. The pilgrims were divided into two bands. A part were mounted on horseback, preceded by the cross-bearer and the _curé_; the rest followed on foot with baskets and sacks of provisions. The four bells of Notre Dame de Lesparre pealed joyfully out over the marshes to announce their departure. They stopped at every chapel they came to, to salute its tutelar saint by some hymn in his honor, and then kept on their way, chanting the litanies. Most of these chapels were dedicated to saints specially invoked in time of pestilence; for every grief of the middle ages left its record in the churches. There was St. Catharine, always popular in this region. Then came St. Sebastian, now destroyed, but which gave the name of La Capère (the chapel) to a little village we passed, and St. Roch still standing at Escarpon. As soon as the caravan came in sight of the belfry of Soulac, on a height between St. Vivian and Talais, the pilgrims descended from their horses to salute the Virgin on their knees. Arrived at the holy sanctuary, each one offered his candle streaming with ribbons—a necessary adjunct in all religious offerings in Médoc. An enormous mass of these old ribbons have been preserved at new Soulac. After their devotions the pilgrims went out on the seashore to take their lunch. The next day they returned to Lesparre in the same order. This annual pilgrimage was continued for five centuries, which accounts for the vivid recollections of it among the people. Near the manor-house of the Baron d’Arès, now buried in an immense dune, flowed a fountain as late as 1830, but since filled up, where the pilgrims stopped to quench their thirst, with the pious belief that St. Veronica had brought here a vein of the sacred spring that flowed for the healing of the people in her sanctuary.

Lesparre, once the capital of Médoc, has now only about a thousand inhabitants. From the tower there is an extensive view over the broad moor with its patches of yellow sand, here and there an oasis with a few vegetables, and perhaps an acre or two of oats, barley, or maize, which grow as they can. In winter this vast heath becomes a marsh. The water stands in pools among the sand-hills. The peasant shuts himself up with his beasts, and warms himself by the peat-fire, while the pools freeze and the sands grow white under the icy breath of the sea-winds.

St. Veronica’s Church, so venerated in the middle ages, has within a few years been dug out of the sands and repaired. The miraculous statue of Notre Dame de la Fin des Terres has been restored to its place on her altar, and, after a silence of one hundred and twenty years, the bell once more awakens the echoes of the sand-hills, thanks to the interest taken by Cardinal Donnet in reviving a devotion to this ancient place of pilgrimage. Veronica is once more honored in the place where she died—a devotion that seems significant in these times. Perhaps she comes to hold up anew the bleeding face of Christ for the healing of the nations. The _Volto Santo_ is said to have turned pale a few years since when exhibited at Rome. We may well believe it, in view of all the wounds since inflicted on Christ’s Bride—the church. “O Veronica!” cries Padre Verruchino, a Capuchin friar, “suffer us, we pray thee, to gaze awhile at thy holy veil for the healing of our sin-sick souls!”

An old MS. of the thirteenth or fourteenth century at Auch contains the following sequence: _De Sancta Veronica Memoria_, showing how well our fathers in the faith, even in those dark ages, knew how to rise above every type and shadow to the substance of things hoped for. It is good to echo the prayers of those earnest times.

Salve, sancta facies
Nostri Redemptoris
In qua nitet species
Divini splendoris,
Impressa panniculo
Nivei coloris,
Dataque Veronicæ
Signum ob amoris.

Salve, decus seculi,
Speculum sanctorum
Quod videre cupiunt
Spiritus cœlorum.
Nos ab omni macula
Purga vitiorum,
Inque nos consortium
Junge Beatorum.

Ave, nostra gloria,
In hac vita dura,
Labili et fragili,
Cito transitura.
Nos perduc ad patriam,
O felix figura,
Ad videndam faciem
Christi, mente pura.

Esto nobis, Domine,
Tutum adjuvamen,
Dulce refrigerium,
Atque consolamen,
Ut nobis non noceat
Hostile conamen,
Sed fruamur requie.
Nos dicamus: Amen.[27]

Footnote 27:

Hail, holy face of our Redeemer, in which shines the image of the
divine Splendor, imprinted on a veil white as snow, and given to
Veronica in token of his love!

Hail, glory of the world, mirror of the saints, whom the celestial
spirits long to behold. Purify us from the stain of every vice and
bring us to the society of the Blessed!

Hail, our glory, in this rough, uncertain life, so soon to pass away!
Lead us to our true country, O blessed symbol! that with a pure heart
we may behold the face of Christ.

Be to us, O Lord! a sure help, the sweet refreshment and consolation
of our woes, that the efforts of the enemy may not injure us, but that
we may enter into the fruition of true rest. Let us say: Amen.

DANTE’S PURGATORIO.
_CANTO FIFTEENTH._
TRANSLATED BY T. W. PARSONS.

Between the third hour’s close and dawn of day,
Much as appears of the celestial sphere
Ever in motion, like a child at play,
So much appeared now of the sun’s career
To be remaining towards his western way.
There it was evening; here the middle night;
And on our front, the rays directly beat,
For we had circled so the hill that right
On towards the sunset we inclined our feet;
When on my brows I felt a load of light,
Greater in splendor than before had been,
And o’er my sense, as ’twere from things unknown,
A stupor stole; and of my palms a screen
I made against the excess of light that shone.

As when from water or a mirror’s face
The ray leaps upward to the opponent side,
Mounting in like mode as through equal space
The ray descendeth, and with line as wide
From the direct line of a falling stone
(As science shows, and art hath verified),
So did I seem, by some reflected light
Before me there, to be so struck that fain
I would have suddenly withdrawn my sight.

“What is it, gentle Father, that in vain
I shield my visage from, and still towards us
Seems as in motion?” He made this reply:
“Marvel not if, as yet, the splendor thus
Of heaven’s bright household overpowers thine eye.
This one is sent to ask men up the height;
Soon it shall be that to behold these things
Will cause thee no dismay, but bring delight,
Even as thy soul due disposition brings.”
Soon as we reached the blessèd angel’s side
He said, with glad voice: “Here you enter in
By steps more easy than you yet have tried.”
We thence departed, and, ascending now,
Heard _Beati Misericordes_ chanted
Below, behind us, and, “Be joyful thou
To whom to conquer in this pass is granted!”

My Master and myself in lonely mood
Still mounting, I considered as I went
How I might gather from his word some good,
And turned to him inquiringly: “What meant
That spirit of Romagna speaking so
_Of partnership forbid_?” He made reply:
“Of his own worst defect he now doth know
The torment; therefore, do not wonder why
Others he chides to make their penance less.
Because you point your wishes at a prize
Where part is lost if it permit largesse,
Envy’s bad bellows move your selfish sighs.
But if the love of the supernal sphere
Heavenward exalted every wish of yours,
Your bosom would not harbor that low fear;
For so much more as there they speak of Ours,
More love in that celestial cloister glows,
And so much more of good each soul secures.”

“Now to be satisfied my hunger grows,”
I answered, “and my mind is more in doubt
Than if no question I had asked of thee.
How comes it, that a blessing parcelled out
More rich its many owners makes to be
Than if a few possessed it?” He replied:
“Because thy mind its reasoning cannot stretch
Beyond those things of earth to which ’tis tied;
Thou from true light dost only darkness fetch.
That Good ineffable and infinite
Who dwells above there, runs to love as fleet
As to a lucid body a ray of light,
And so much giveth as it finds of heat.
Broad as the flame of charity may burn,
The eternal flame above it grows more great:
And more their number is who heavenward yearn.
More for his love there are, and they love more,
Like mirrors that each other’s light return.
Now, if thou hunger still, despite my lore,
Thou shalt see Beatris, and sure, she will
Give unto this and every wish repose;
Only may those five wounds remaining still,
That heal in aching, like the twain soon close.”

Whiles I was musing, and would fain have said,
“Thou hast contented me,” I looked, and, lo!
To the next cornice we had come; here fled
All power of speech, mine eyes were ravished so!
For, seized with ecstasy, I seemed to be
Rapt in a sudden vision of a crowd
Met in a temple. I could also see
That entering, 'mid those men, a woman stood
With sweet mien of a mother, saying: “Why
Hast thou so dealt with us, my darling son?
Behold, in every place thy sire and I
Have sought thee sorrowing.” Soon as she had done
This vision vanished, and I next beheld
Another lady, with such drops besprent
As down the cheeks flow from a bosom swelled
With scorn of some one and by anguish rent;
Saying: “If thou be ruler of the town,
About whose name the gods had such a strife
And whence all knowledge gleams to give renown,
Pisistratus! avenge thee on his life
Whose bold embrace hath brought our daughter down!”
And her lord seemed to me benign and mild,
Answering with aspect that her fury stemmed:
“What should we do to one that harmed our child,
If one caressing her be so condemned?”
Next I saw people raging hot in ire,
Slaying a youth with stones, and shouting loud:
“Martyr him! martyr him!” in tumult dire;
And I saw him drop down before the crowd
Dying, but lifting, ere he did expire,
Looks that might win compassion for his foes;
And with such eyes,—they seemed the doors of heaven!
Praying the most high Father that, for those
Who wrought such wrong, their sin might be forgiven.

Soon as my mind that from itself had swerved
Came back to true things that outside it lie,
I knew my dreams false, but their truth observed.
My leader then, who could perceive that I
Walked like a man by somnolence unnerved,
Said: “Come! what ails thee that thou canst not keep
Thy footing straight, but more than half a league
Hast moved, with faltering steps, as if by sleep
Or wine o’ercome, and eyes that show fatigue?”
I answered: “O sweet Father! I will tell,
If thou wilt hear me, all that I have seen,
While my limbs failed me and my strength so fell.”
And he replied: “Shouldst thou thy visage screen
Beneath an hundred masks, I still could spell
Each slightest thought of thine, and read thy dreams.
This vision came lest thou be self-excused
Thy heart from opening to the peace that streams
From love’s eternal fount o’er all diffused.
I did not ask 'what ails thee,’ as men speak,
Who look with mortal eye that cannot see
The soul without its body. Thou wast weak,
And I, to strengthen, reprehended thee.
So men are wont dull servants to reprove
That when their watch comes round are slow to stir.”

During these words we did not cease to move
On through the evening, and attentive were
To look beyond us, far as vision might,
Against the level sun’s o’erpowering rays;
And towards us, lo! a vapor, dun as night,
Little by little growing on our gaze,
Deprived us of pure air and dimmed our sight,
Nor was there shelter from the blinding haze.

SIX SUNNY MONTHS.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE HOUSE OF YORKE,” “GRAPES AND THORNS,” ETC.