Chapter LII: Part III (2)

When the princess left St. Savin the abbot furnished her party with “the best horses in Lavedan, thick Béarn cloaks, substantial provisions, and excellent guides across the mountains, which they were obliged to traverse partly on foot, in spite of the horses, and, after great sweat and labor, arrived at Notre Dame de Sarrance.”

The sceptical poet Bertin, too, thought his visit worthy of recording: “We chose that day to pay our brief devotions at the Abbey of St. Savin; that is to say, to dine there at the expense of St. Benedict. The steeple of the Abbey comes in sight between Pierrefitte and Argelés. The road ascends amid the trees, a little rough, but cool, impenetrable to the rays of the sun, and watered by an infinite number of living streams that come down from the mountains. It may be well to say that some of us were in a carriage and others on horseback, but the greater part were perched, well or ill, as the case might be, on donkeys. Our arrival was triumphant. The ladies were received by the prior to the sound of the organ, the only instrument he could strike up, thanks to the talent of his cook. He likewise presented them a bouquet of flowers and made them a compliment.... The house is well built, spacious, and in the finest position in the world. From the upper terrace of the garden the eye wanders over the magnificent plain of Argelés, which bears comparison, to say the least, with the famous valley of Campan. The day was spent very agreeably, but almost wholly at table. We returned a little late in the evening, without any other accident but the loss of one of our donkeys, which took it into its head to die on the way, under the pretext that he had been overworked in the morning and could go no farther. We celebrated in couplets, half sad, half merry, to which every one contributed:

“'Le trépas de la veielle ânesse,
Qu’on magnétisa, mais en vain
(Trop sotte était la sotte espèce);
Le long dîner, la courte messe,
La chère fine, et le bon vin,
L’enjoûment et la politesse
Du bon prieur de St. Savin.’”

None of the local traditions or documents contain anything to the disparagement of the monks of St. Savin, and their memory is still dear to the inhabitants of the valley. Madame de Motteville, lady of honor to Anne of Austria, when she came to the Pyrenees on the occasion of Louis XIV.’s marriage, visited St. Savin, and thus speaks of it: “There is an abbey here of great importance and renown. It is well built and the monks lead an exemplary life.”

The abbatial church escaped at the Revolution, and the tomb of St. Savin was respected. But it became the property of the government, and it was not till 1874 that it was purchased by the Bishop of Tarbes. The greater part of the abbey has disappeared. The old chapter-hall, however, is still standing. It is of the twelfth century, and has six low arches supported by two central pillars, cylindrical in form. This hall opened into the cloister, which has been totally destroyed. The fine Romanesque church is in good preservation. Around the deep embrasures of the entrance are symbolic animals of evil import somewhat coarsely sculptured, such as the scaly dragon of adverse influence, a bear devouring a sinless child, and the screech-owl, symbol of Jews, traitors, and the foul fiend:

“En cest oisel sunt figuré
Li felon Jeve maleur”

—by this bird is figured the felon Jew malign. And, in fact, the Jews closed their eyes, like the owl, to the light, not to recognize the Messias.

We descended by several steps into the church, into which the sun was streaming from the rose window at the west. The tomb of St. Savin is at the apsis, beneath a gilded canopy of rich design. It is of schist, about six feet long and three broad, and rests on double columns of marble, which have carved capitals. It was long used as an altar, according to the custom of the early church. Above is an ancient statue of the Virgin, said to have been brought from the East by the Crusaders, and in another part of the church is a revered crucifix of great antiquity. One of the most interesting ornaments is a painting in eighteen compartments that presents a complete epitome of St. Savin’s life, and is curious for its details of costume and architecture. Here we are told how St. Savin was sent by his mother, the Countess of Barcelona, to complete his education at the brilliant court of her brother, the Count of Poitiers, who received him with great favor and entrusted his son to his care. St. Savin, for whom, young as he was, life had no illusions, inspired his cousin to lead a simple, unostentatious life in the midst of worldly luxuries, and the latter, not satisfied with this taste of self-renunciation, soon betook himself to the convent of Ligugé, near Poitiers. His mother, in despair, threw herself at St. Savin’s feet, crying: “Give me back my child! It is you who have robbed me of him. You have a mother; think of her grief should you abandon her for ever.” Alas! this was the very thing the saint was thinking of, but he could not resist a higher will. He soon followed his cousin’s example, and they took the monastic habit together. St. Savin’s heart, however, yearned for a more profound solitude, and a celestial inspiration directed his steps toward the Pyrenees. Coming to the valley of the Gave, he followed its windings till he reached a spot overshadowed by three lofty mountains that were covered with snow nearly all the year round—cold, stern, wrapped in gray mists, and infested with wild beasts. Here he looked down on the lonely valley once inhabited by his countryman, the great St. Orens, and resolved to build his cell in a place so favorable to meditation and prayer, and give himself up to a life of austerity. He trod the rough mountain paths with bare feet—he who had been brought up in the court of princes. His only garment lasted him thirteen years. He dug a grave seven feet long and five deep, and there he slept, or lay buried in divine contemplation. Chromasse, a neighboring lord, angry to see a stranger on his lands, sent a servant to drive him away, but the latter only rendered St. Savin incapable of obeying by the blows he inflicted on him. Both master and servant were punished for their cruelty. The former was struck blind, and the latter became possessed by the devil. The moral condition of the servant particularly excited the compassion of the saint, who obtained his deliverance by the power of prayer.

An old legend says that when St. Savin wished to have a light in his cell he used to hold a torch to his breast, and in that furnace of divine love it was at once lighted. This torch used to burn all night long without being consumed, and only grew pale when the morning light came to surprise the saint lost in prayer.

St. Savin, in his last illness, was attended by Sylvian and Flavian, two monks from the neighboring abbey. When he felt his end was drawing near he requested to see Abbot Forminius, who, detained by important business, sent word that he would come on the following day. The dying hermit replied that the morrow would be too late, for then a higher occupation would engross him. As soon as his condition became known a great number of priests and monks hastened to his cell. He received the Body of the Lord, and, with his arms stretched towards heaven and a face radiant with joy, he fell asleep in the midst of a prayer which he finished in heaven.

All the people of the neighboring valleys followed St. Savin’s body to the grave. The repentant Chromasse himself joined the procession, and, pressing close to the bier, he touched with trembling hands the body of the saint, and his eyes, so long closed to the light, instantly recovered their sight.

Such is the legend of St. Savin, who became of so much repute in these mountains that it is not surprising his name should be given to the abbey where he was buried.

From a terrace before the church is a superb view of the vale of Argelés, around which rises mountain above mountain; the lowest rich with vegetation, the upper peaks bare and covered with eternal frosts. Not far off are the remains of the old feudal castle of Baucens, formerly inhabited by the Vicomtes de Lavedan, lords of the Seven Valleys. Madame de Motteville, who stopped here, compares it in her _Mémoires_ to the palace of the fairy Urgande.

Just below St. Savin is the village of Adast with the château de Miramon, the heiress of which married Despourrins, the bucolic poet of the Pyrenees, who composed here, in the idiom of the valley, pastoral songs full of grace and feeling, which have made his name popular in the mountains, where they are still sung by the herdsmen. Béarn and Bigorre contend for the honor of being his birthplace, as the Greek cities of old for that of Homer. Here Boieldieu, struck by the beauty of the country and its poetic associations, wished to found an academy of artists. His plan was, as he wrote his friend Berton in 1832, “to buy an old château in the beautiful valley of Argelés, as finely situated as that of the poet Despourrins. The sight of so glorious a landscape would rouse the torpid imagination, and perhaps awaken in the exhausted brain fresh inspirations that might rival the vagaries of certain artists of the new school. The sky of the Pyrenees ought to be as propitious as that of Italy. The Pic du Midi is not a volcano, but it is covered with flowers. And Marboré, the Brèche de Roland, and the Cirque de Gavarnie, with its cascade that falls down twelve hundred feet, are monuments capable of electrifying the imagination as well as St. Peter’s, the Coliseum, and the Pantheon at Rome.”

On a promontory near Miramon is the votive chapel of _Piétad_, with its Romanesque lucarnes and low arches, that dates from the ninth century. It was saved at the Revolution by the mountaineers, among whom, as in Spain, Our Lady of Sorrow (or of Pitié, as she is called here) is especially popular. There is, too, the chapel of Soulon, with its crenellated tower, and near by the hermitage of St. Aoulari, with its Roman apsis—a rural oratory, once supported by the offerings of pilgrims and a field that yielded three sacks of wheat, but where services are now held only on certain festivals of the Virgin.

On the other side of the Vale of Argelés stood the hermitage of St. Orens between two cliffs, where, in the tenth century, the Countess Faquilie of Bigorre built a monastery, that this great saint might come to her aid on the dread day of judgment; but only a few picturesque ruins now remain on the edge of a frightful abyss. An old charter enumerates the gifts of the countess for the support of this abbey, called St. Orens of Lavedan: fields, vineyards, books, vestments, and sacred vessels. Nay, more: twenty cows with their calves, six horses, cattle, sheep, swine, and a donkey. The neighboring lords verified the boundaries of the land she gave, and swore thereto by six saints popular in the mountains: St. Saturnin, St. Paul, St. Andrew, St. Martin, and St. Orens.

St. Orens rivals St. Savin in popularity in southwestern France, where many churches and convents still bear his name. Nor is his fame confined to this region. St. Hugo consecrated a chapel to his memory in the magnificent church of Cluny. In Spain there is a church bearing his name at Huesca, which claims to be his native place. In it is the tomb of St. Patience, his mother. And we remember seeing a marble statue of St. Orens beside the shrine of St. Isidro in one of the finest churches of Madrid. The Spanish say St. Orens was the brother of the great St. Lawrence, so honored by the church universal; but the traditions of France only speak of him as the son of the Duke of Urgel, who crossed the Pyrenees to bury himself in the solitude of the mountains. Here he found a cave in a melancholy valley—the Val Caprasie—where the only noise to break the everlasting silence was the torrent that escaped from Lake Isaby. No place could have been better suited to the poetic soul of St. Orens; for a poet he was. His hymns and other writings are still admired in our day, and his Latin poem, entitled _Commonitorium_, has recently been translated into French. Fortunatus mentions it:

“Paucaque perstrinxit florente Orientius ore.”

This is a treatise of Christian morality in elegiac measure. It is pleasant to read it in the place where it was written and among people whose ancestors probably first read it. We quote one passage, worthy of being written over the doors of the hospitable monasteries that bear his name, in one of which we have so often found shelter: “Fail not to receive under thy hospitable roof the traveller overtaken by darkness. When thou art naked, thou desirest a garment to cover thee; thirsty, a cup to refresh thee. Let similar wants, therefore, excite thy compassion. Share thy mantle, thy loaf with the unfortunate.”

It is said that this saint, so benevolent to others, exercised such severity towards himself as to gird his body with an iron chain and recite the Psalter daily standing in the icy waters of Lake Isaby. He may be cited as an early example of the benefit of hydropathy, for he lived to a good old age in spite, or in consequence, of the rigors of penance. He erected a flour-mill on the borders of the lake for the use of the people around, which tradition says lasted most miraculously seven centuries without ever needing the slightest repair. The remains of it are still pointed out with respect by the herdsmen of the valley. And the stone on which the saint used to kneel in his cave has been carefully preserved; for nothing can exceed the tenacity with which these mountaineers cling to their ancient traditions and memorials. It is worn by the knees of generation after generation who have knelt to pray where St. Orens prayed fourteen hundred years ago.

St. Orens became noted throughout the province for his sanctity and eminent abilities, and the inhabitants of Auch, after three days of fasting and prayer, chose him as their bishop. The messengers they despatched to the mountains found him cultivating the earth. “Deign, O Lord!” cried he, planting his spade in the ground, “deign, I beseech of thee, to manifest thy will in an unmistakable manner.” And in an instant the handle became a bush, which put forth branches and was covered with foliage. The saint no longer hesitated, but departed with the messengers. When he entered the city of Auch all the sick are said to have been instantly healed. He found his diocese partly under the influence of paganism, and showed his zeal in demolishing the altars of the false gods. He saved it also from the ravages of the Vandals at the beginning of the fifth century, and was deputed by the king of the Visigoths to avert the danger that threatened Toulouse, on which the Romans were marching. He is believed to have saved that city by his prayers, and his statue was afterwards placed over one of its gates out of gratitude. A portion of his relics is likewise borne through the streets in the magnificent annual processions for which Toulouse is famous.

St. Orens is said to have regretted the solitude of this peaceful mountain valley, and once, when overwhelmed with the responsibility of his office, he secretly escaped and fled to his cave. His people, however, went in pursuit of him and succeeded in bringing him back. But the time of release came. On his death-bed he had a wondrous vision of Christ surrounded by a multitude of angels, and while in mystic converse with them his soul took flight for heaven. He was buried in the church of St. Jean de l’Aubépine at Auch, and his tomb became famous for miracles, particularly in cases of epilepsy and diabolical possession.

A Benedictine monastery was built here in the tenth century and called St. Orens’ Priory. Its third prior, Bernard de Sédirac, afterwards Archbishop of Toledo, had the remains of St. Orens exhumed and placed in a coffer covered with silver bas-reliefs relating to the saint’s life. This _châsse_ was suspended on the wall of a chapel behind the high altar, and could only be reached by means of a ladder. Notwithstanding, it was robbed of its silver covering some time after by two soldiers, one of whom exclaimed in the true modern spirit: “What! workest thou miracles at this late hour?” But he speedily expiated his sacrilege. He was seized inwardly with a terrible fire that soon consumed him. After this the pavement beneath was covered with bristling iron spikes to prevent another profanation. But the relics of St. Orens, that had escaped the Moor and the Norman, and were even spared by the iconoclasts of the sixteenth century, were less fortunate at the Revolution, when the church of which they were the glory, with its tombs of the early bishops, and the mausoleum of Sancho Mitarra, the scourge of the Moors, from whom sprang the great family of the Armagnacs, so celebrated for their power and their misfortunes, was mostly destroyed, together with a part of St. Orens’ Priory.

The last prior of this monastery was a member of the illustrious house of Montesquieu, one of the most ancient in the province. His brother, a writer of some merit, when the family name and arms were claimed by the sires of Boulbène, instituted a lawsuit against them, and wrote a work to prove his descent from Clovis, which led the Count de Maurepas to exclaim with affected alarm after M. de Montesquieu had gained his suit: “Now, we really hope you are not going to claim the throne of France!” And among the epigrams that rained on him when he was made a member of the French Academy was the following:

“Montesquiou-Fezensac est de l’Académie.
Quel ouvrage a-t-il fait? Sa Genéalogie!”

The prior was one of the deputies of the Etats-Généraux, and made himself conspicuous for his mild, persuasive eloquence. One day Mirabeau, perceiving the effect of his discourse, cried out: _Méfiez-vous de ce petit serpent: il vous séduira_! After being in exile twice he was, at the Restoration, made a duke and peer of France.

How dear St. Orens’ memory still is in the diocese he once governed we well know who have spent several years of our life there. How joyous is the 1st of May, on which his festival falls! His relics are exposed at the priory, a procession, with lights and music, gathers around the place where his shrine once stood, and at night bonfires are lit on the other side of the Gers and the people dance in the open air.

But to return to the pastoral valleys of the Lavedan. Out of Argelés you pass into the valley of Azun, one of the least known, but one of the most picturesque in the Pyrenees. It is high up among the mountains and divided by the deep and turbulent Gave.[132] The entrance was once defended by the castle of Vieuzac, the ruins of which remain, associated with the memory of the too famous Barère. The valley is inhabited by people of primitive manners with few artificial distinctions. Here every year, at Carnival time, is to be seen the peculiar dance of the country called the _Ballade_, performed by the young men, who often assemble from different villages in short vests gaily adorned with ribbons, with the most efficient _balladeur_ at their head, playing on the fife and tambourine and waving their flags. The tambourine of the Pyrenees is a primitive instrument of pine wood, as simple as the lyre of Apollo, and with the same number of strings, which the performer beats with a little rod. These dancers are escorted to the edge of their villages by young girls, who welcome them at their return and lavish praises on those who have distinguished themselves. They are presented with eggs, ham, and butter in all the villages they pass through, on which they feast the following day.

Footnote 132:

Gave is the general name of these mountain streams.

Among the curious old usages of this valley, before 1793, was the tribute of butter to the shrine of St. Bertrand of Comminges, a popular saint in the Pyrenees, where he labored in the eleventh century. The people of Azun were then almost out of the bounds of civilization, and for what religious instruction they had they were chiefly indebted to the holy hermits of the neighboring mountains. It is said that when St. Bertrand came to preach among these rough mountaineers, he was treated with so much indignity that the tail of his mule was cut off, for which the land was cursed with sterility for several years. Touched by the repentance and sad condition of the inhabitants, the saint, by his prayers, obtained the cessation of their punishment, and they, in their gratitude, promised to give him henceforth all the butter made the week before Whitsuntide. This vow was kept for nearly seven centuries. A canon and two prebends from St. Bertrand’s came every year to the valley in acknowledgment of this tribute, bringing with them water that had been passed through the saint’s pastoral staff while chanting some orison in his honor. This they gave to the people as a remedy for disease among cattle. These deputies never failed to pass before the house, which is still standing, where St. Bertrand had been so disrespectfully treated. The master stood in the door and humbly prayed them to enter and partake of the refreshments he had prepared, which they did with emotion, like angels of peace and reconciliation.

At the farther end of the valley of Azun, not far from the Spanish frontier, rise the dome and square tower of Notre Dame de Pouey-la-Hun, that stands on an isolated peak overlooking the village of Arrens, between the two roads that lead to Spain and the province of Béarn. The present edifice is comparatively modern, but its foundation is so remote as to be lost in obscurity. You enter by a fine porch supported by four marble pillars, and are at once surprised at the richness of the interior. The walls are brown and gold, and the pillars, carvings, statues, and the very mouldings of the blue arches are all gilded, producing a most brilliant effect. Around the nave are two galleries, one above the other, for the men, who are generally separated from the women in the churches of Bigorre; at least, in the villages. The pavement is the unhewn granite cliff, which is worn quite smooth by the feet of so many generations of worshippers. It descends like an amphitheatre, enabling every one to see the altar distinctly. Across it is a groove, worn by a mountain stream at certain seasons of the year. All the joys and sorrows of the valley are brought to the feet of Notre Dame de Pouey-la-Hun, and numerous pilgrimages are made here at certain seasons of the year.

In 1793 orders came to destroy this venerated chapel, but when the emissaries entered it they were saluted by mysterious voices among the arches, as if reproaching them for their blasphemies and imprecations, and, terrified by the unearthly sounds, they at once made their escape. There was nothing supernatural in this, however. It was a mere stratagem on the part of the peasants to save their beloved chapel, and they boast of it to this day.

During the troubles with Spain this chapel was used as a military post, and consequently much injured. As soon as it was no longer needed for this purpose the government again decided to demolish it and sell the materials. The people became excited, and the women assailed with stones the agents sent to examine the building, who fled for their lives. Then a pious widow, to save it from further profanation, bought it for about fifteen thousand francs, which was nearly all she had, and, when she died, bequeathed it to her nephew, a priest, till better days should arrive. Time and neglect were beginning to leave their traces on the chapel when Queen Hortense came to the Pyrenees. She had just lost her son, the Prince Royal of Holland, and the wild, melancholy grandeur of these mountain valleys harmonized with her sadness. She was particularly pleased with the quaint village of Arrens and its picturesque chapel, and made a sketch of the landscape herself. The devotion of the people to the Virgin of Pouey-la-Hun touched her, and she sympathized in their wish it should be reopened for public worship. She went there to offer her vows, and founded an anniversary Mass for her son, which was to be celebrated with all possible solemnity, as recorded by the authorities of the place. This was shortly before the birth of Louis Napoleon. She never forgot her visit to Pouey-la-Hun. She alludes to it in her travels, and excited the interest of the government in its neglected condition. In 1836 it was made over to the Bishop of Tarbes, who founded a seminary here under the care of missionaries from Garaison, who have rendered it one of the most popular chapels in the Pyrenees.

But to return to the basin of Argelés. The valley of Cauterets begins at Pierrefitte. A carriage-road has been hewn along the steep mountain side on the very edge of a precipice, three or four hundred feet deep, at the bottom of which rushes a fierce torrent that breaks into foam over the sharp rocks that encumber its bed. On each side of this gulf rise steep cliffs almost perpendicularly, down which dash here and there miniature cascades, all in a foam. A bend in the river enables you to look back through the gorge over the wild Gave, the waters of which are of the color of beryl. Nothing could be more delicate than the tint of the foam. Beyond the bold arch of the bridge at Pierrefitte can be seen the fair vale of Argelés, forming a lovely picture framed by the lofty palisades of this wild pass. We left the carriage and wandered on afoot, gathering the eglantine and other wild flowers, inhaling the delicious mountain air, and drinking the cool waters of its numerous streams. By moonlight the scene is particularly sublime. The gloom of this narrow gorge shut in by the lofty mountains, the deep shades of the forests that cover them, and the abyss below, with the ceaseless rush of the mad stream, produce a profound impression on the mind. We remember driving through it on one occasion at midnight. The full moon hung over the mountains of Gavarnie, its light streaming down here and there into the gorge with mysterious, enchanting effect. Before us was the peak of Péguère, like an enormous pyramid with one tremulous star above, its summit bathed in the soft radiance, while its furrowed sides and unfathomable gulfs were veiled with a thousand shadows. As you wind up the Côte du Limaçon, the whole Gave is beaten into spray among the huge rocks. Here the lateral mountains recede somewhat, and you shortly come to the triangular valley of Cauterets, completely shut in among majestic mountains. Its springs were well known to the Romans, and some pretend that Cæsar himself visited them. It is more certain that the kings of Aragon and Navarre did, as well as the ancient lords of Bigorre and Béarn. The little town is more sumptuous now than when under the rule of the abbot of St. Savin. Wooden cabins have been replaced by marble edifices, and the artificial appliances of modern times substituted for the primitive observances of St. Orens. But one gives a sigh now and then for the good old simple days when the lord abbot, to prevent all imposition on the stranger and the poor, forbade the sale of provisions except on the public square. The wine, too, which had to be of good quality, could only be sold a _liard_ more on a pint than at St. Savin, and if false measure was given a fine of ten crowns was imposed on the vender, one-half of which went to the poor and the rest to the abbot.

Cauterets is a very agreeable residence in the season. Here you meet strangers from all parts of the world, and there is a certain charm in the unrestrained intercourse. At certain hours, of course, every one goes to partake of the waters and to bathe. There are pleasant walks along the banks of the Gave, and fatiguing ones up the steep mountain sides. At table you have trout from the river and game from the forests, fowl and vegetables from Argelés, apples and plums from St. Savin’s, peaches from Béarn, and berries of rare flavor from the mountains. Buried in this quiet valley, away from all human agitations, in daily communication with nature, that puts on here its fairest aspect, the invalid returns to a simple, inartificial life which produces more effect than the waters. Rousseau thought no violent agitation whatever, no vapors of the mind, could long resist such a place of residence, and he was astonished that the salutary air of the mountains was not numbered among the chief remedies of medical and moral science.

The valleys of Barèges and Gavarnie also belong to the Lavedan. Another gorge near Pierrefitte leads to them, which is even gloomier and more savage than that of Cauterets. A little more than a century ago it was inaccessible to carriages, but since, by a miracle of engineering, a road has been constructed along the edge of the precipice, and when it cannot find room on one side it springs boldly across the abyss to the other by means of a bridge from which you look down a terrific depth at the Gave, that roars and struggles along with scarcely room enough in its bed. The road thus crosses and recrosses the river seven times. It was completed in 1746, when a carriage was for the first time seen in the gorge. Anything more wild and melancholy than this defile cannot be conceived. The mountains rise perpendicularly up on both sides, with nothing growing on them but a few wretched pines twisted by the winds. The height of these grim walls, the depth of the abyss over which you hang, the gloom, the silence only broken by the roar of the torrent, appall. From time to time you see an isolated house, and at length the village of Viscos, hanging like an eagle’s nest on the rocks. There are two ferruginous springs in the gorge, but they cannot be utilized on account of their position.

Just as you are beginning to yield to the horrors of this wild pass, it opens, and you soon come to the sweet, fresh valley of Luz, one of the most beautiful in the Pyrenees. It is three thousand feet higher than the Vale of Argelés. Here the Gave is a peaceful, well-behaved stream. Its shores are planted with long lines of decorous poplars. The meadow is dotted with trees and covered with harvests. Lofty mountains keep guard around, the lower ones wooded and crowned with the ruins of some old castle, the upper covered with glaciers. In the depths of this valley is the town of Luz, with narrow, tortuous streets, and at the right, on the side of the mountain, is the fashionable watering-place of St. Sauveur. The church of Luz, built by the Knights-Templars in the twelfth century, looks like a fortress with its battlements and great square tower. As in many churches of this region, there is a low, narrow door, now walled up, by which the Cagots—those unhappy pariahs of the Pyrenees—were once obliged to enter. This proscribed race is known to have existed in the time of the early French monarchy. It is said that they descended from the Goths or some vanquished nation, which made them an object of contempt. They were denied citizenship and obliged to live apart and wear a red badge on their breasts, shaped somewhat like a duck’s foot. The church endeavored to triumph over this prejudice by reminding the people that all men are brethren. She would not allow the Cagots, though they were deemed infectious, to be banished from the churches, but gave them a separate place till they should be regarded with more favorable dispositions. They had their own stoup, and it was a defilement to pass through their door. In one church of the diocese of Tarbes the archdeacon with the other clergy, to do away with this odious distinction, passed through their door at some public procession, and the people were obliged to follow. From that time they passed indifferently through either door. The race is nearly extinct now, or has gradually become almost identified with the other inhabitants.

Ascending one of the church towers to the battlements, you find broken lances, stirrups, and other accoutrements—perhaps left behind by the old Knights. There are also four cannons placed here by the Leaguers to defend the edifice against the Huguenots, who always made churches the principal object of attack.

East of Luz, on a high mount, are the picturesque ruins of the Castle of Sainte Marie, which once defended the valley, likewise attributed to the Templars. This was one of the last holds of the English in Bigorre. It is also associated with Burke of the “Sublime and Beautiful,” who surely found both in this incomparable valley. Was it in France that he found reason to prefer “the furniture of ancient tyranny, even in rags,” to the torrent of liberty that swept it violently away?

St. Sauveur is built in a curve of the mountain side, and its houses on the cliffs and terraces produce a charming effect. It is only ten minutes’ walk from Luz, through a long avenue of Lombardy poplars, across a marble bridge over the Gave, and then up a spiral _rampe_ which affords a new and more extensive view at every step. You see the verdant meadow, pretty hamlets on the mountain slopes, foaming cascades, on every hand a landscape varied, brilliant, and imposing.

The first to discover the virtues of the thermal springs of St. Sauveur was a bishop of Tarbes who took refuge here when his diocese was ravaged by the Huguenots of Béarn in the sixteenth century. Surely he had need to drink of their soothing waters! After experiencing their virtues he placed the following inscription over the principal spring: _Vos haurietis aquas de fonte Salvatoris_, whence the name of St. Sauveur. But the place did not become a fashionable resort till the present century. At the Restoration the French aristocracy, diplomatic highnesses, and military officers flocked hither to enjoy the scenery and allay the fever of their uncertain political life by drinking of the sulphurous waters.

Not far from Luz, on a verdant hill, are the ruins of a hermitage where from time immemorial lived a succession of hermits down to the end of the eighteenth century. Beside it was the chapel of St. Pierre, held in great veneration by the mountaineers, who, on solemn occasions, went there to pray for some special blessing or be delivered from some evil. The statutes of Luz forbade under severe penalty any person over twelve years of age to ring the bells of this chapel without orders. They required, moreover, a general procession to be made here on St. Mark’s day in order to “obtain a blessing on the fruits of the earth, peace with the neighboring valleys, power to resist the devil and all wickedness, and strength to perform those works agreeable to God by means of which is attained the glory of Paradise—Amen.” When the bells rang out on the 25th of April, the master and mistress of every house in the valley were to present themselves, as well dressed as possible, in the church of Luz, and thence proceed, reciting a prescribed number of _Paters_ and _Aves_, to the hermitage, where the Mass of St. Mark was said and a portion of the four Gospels read. Those who failed to take part in the procession of “Monsieur Saint Marc,” without a legitimate excuse, were obliged to pay a fine of two quarts of wine and half a pound of wax.

St. Peter’s chapel was latterly restored by Napoleon III. under the name of St. Pierre de Solferino. The last hermit who lived here was a Capuchin named Father Ambrose, who consecrated himself to God at the age of sixteen and was all his life a model of holiness. When he took possession of his cell he exclaimed: “I wish to live here as in a tomb—to be counted as nothing—to live unknown, a simple, prayerful, abject life, in utter ignorance of all that is passing in the world.” How complete his renunciation of the world was, how profound the peace he found here, may be seen by two works he left behind, which breathe the deep piety of his nature. They are entitled: _Traité de la Paix Intérieure_ and _Traité de la Voie de l’Ame_. In the latter he says: “It is in the silence of the passions, interior calmness, exemption from unruly desires, and the government of one’s self that true happiness consists.” This work acquired great renown. The Queen of France accepted the dedication, and nine or ten editions were published during the author’s life without disturbing his profound humility or love of solitude. He died here in the odor of sanctity, in 1778, at the advanced age of seventy.

One of the excursions generally made from Luz is to the hermitage of St. Justin, the first bishop of Tarbes, who fled from persecution to the summit of this lofty mountain, where he and his companions built three cells and gave themselves up to austerities and prayer. They were succeeded by other hermits for ages. The ruins of their cells are still to be seen. St. Justin, says the Martyrology, “rendered himself glorious by the multiplication of his talents.”

At the foot of the castle of Sainte Marie is the gorge to the valley of Barège along the river Bastan, which you follow a few miles, through the poplars and willows, till you come to the village at the head of the valley, which is here so narrow as to leave barely room for a single street. Nothing could be sterner and wilder, and the place would long ago have been abandoned to the bears and the elements but for the reputation of its mineral waters. It is, in fact, nearly abandoned in the winter, when a part of the village is generally carried away by the avalanches or the inundation of the most insubordinate of streams. It was Madame de Maintenon who came here with the Duc du Maine, that gave a reputation to the springs of Barèges. Louis XV. built a military hospital here, as the waters are efficacious in the healing of wounds.

The heiress of Barèges in the middle ages married a knight named D’Ossun, but the mountaineers, unable to tolerate the rule of a stranger, resolved to slay him. He was warned and took flight. All the mountain passes were guarded, but he had, says the legend, a wonderful horse, by means of which he leaped from cliff to cliff, and thus made his escape. This place is still called the Pas d’Ossun. The house of Ossun was famous for its warriors. Pierre, a member of this family in the sixteenth century, was a great captain and chiefly contributed to the victory at Dreux. Disheartened at one moment, he followed the example of his fellow-soldiers who were flying from the battle-field, but a feeling of honor brought him back and he covered himself with glory. He could not, however, forgive himself for a moment of weakness, and, in punishment, suffered himself to die of hunger.

There are numerous hollows among the Pyrenees called _Oules_ (a word in _patois_ signifying a large pot or kettle), around which the mountains rise almost perpendicularly. These basins are also called _Cirques_. The most famous, as well as most perfect, is that of Gavarnie, surrounded by the mighty walls of Marboré with its towers and embattled summit. The emotion that seizes one in this sublime spot is unparalleled. But its chaos of terrific aspect, its mountains with their glaciers, the famous Brèche de Roland, and the thread-like cascade that falls down so many hundred feet—the source of the Gave that flows past the grotto of Lourdes—have too often been depicted to need repetition. The scene is to be felt, not described. Here end the seven valleys of the Lavedan on the very boundaries of Spain.

JOB AND EGYPT.[133]

Footnote 133:

V. _Le Rédempteur et la Vie Future, dans les Civilisations
Primitives._ Par M. l’Abbé Ancessi. Paris: Leroux.

There is perhaps no fact more important in the history of the human race, or which, in its striking corroboration of revealed truth, is worthy of higher consideration, than the accumulation of proof, resulting from the exhumation of past ages by modern research, that there are certain beliefs which are the inalienable inheritance of the great human family—beliefs which modern scepticism attacks by a process of false reasoning incomprehensible to any simple and upright nature.

For some years past the sacred texts have been put to the proof by tests of a character as severe as they were unexpected; and thus, from the moment that the key was obtained for deciphering the inscriptions of a far-remote antiquity, it was not without eager anxiety that the judgment was awaited which science was about to pronounce.

But on this occasion, as always when interests of this description are at stake, the first conclusions were too hastily arrived at, and precipitation led to mistakes.

After the vain attacks made on the one hand, and the groundless anxieties raised on the other, with regard to the question of the zodiacs, it was soon found that greater circumspection as well as more accurate criticism must be brought to the examination of evidence before it could be quoted in proof or disproof of any theory. Since that time the lapse of a century has witnessed a vast accession of documentary testimony, and it may be affirmed that up to this moment the whole concurs in establishing the veracity and authenticity of the Holy Scriptures. As the inscriptions of the kings of Assyria bear witness to the fidelity of the Bible narrative, and the Babylonian tradition of the Creation, the Fall, the Tree of Life, the Tower of Babel, and the Deluge confirm the grander, more logical, and simpler account given in the Book of Genesis, so do the annals and theological teachings of ancient Egypt testify to the truth of those doctrines contained in the inspired writings of which they are the traditional echo—an echo mute for ages, and but now reawakened as if to add its protest against the miserable scepticism which is one of the signs of a degenerate and decaying world.

M. l’Abbé Ancessi, whose work on the sacerdotal vestments of Israel and Egypt we have already noticed,[134] has lately published one of more extensive interest, the object of which is to establish from the most ancient documents in existence, outside the Holy Scriptures, that the dogmas necessary to the religious and moral life of man were, from the very origin of society, the heritage of our forefathers, and that, more than a thousand years before Moses, well-nigh all our doctrines and all our hopes existed in the most remote civilization in the universe; and from thence to draw the conclusion that these doctrines and principles would not have remained indestructible in the human mind, diversified and restless as it is, had they not been a part of itself, the foundation of its nature, and one final reason of its being.

Footnote 134:

THE CATHOLIC WORLD, Nov., 1876, p. 213.

The author proceeds to group the Egyptian belief with respect to God, a Redeemer, and the life to come around the well-known text in which Job, overwhelmed by the reproaches of his friends and the weight of his misfortunes, despairing of consolation in this world, declares his certainty of a life to come, where, after death, he will meet with a powerful Avenger, who will put his enemies to shame and make his cause triumph, end his trials, and recompense his virtues by the supreme blessedness of the Vision of God.

The argument of Baldad the Suhite, put briefly, is that _The impious man is always unfortunate in this world_, with its counterpart, _Whoever is unfortunate is impious_; but, in spite of this most imperturbable of theorists, Job is conscious of his own innocence, and after listening to a long outpouring of eloquent imagery, amid the desolate splendors of which there shines no ray of hope or comfort for him, he bursts forth like a tempest:

“How long, then, will you afflict my soul, and break me in pieces
with your words?... Have pity, have pity upon me, at least you my
friends, for the hand of the Lord hath touched me.... Who will grant
me that my words may be written? who will grant me that they may be
marked down in a book with an iron pen, and in a plate of lead; or
be graven with an instrument in the rock? For I know that my
Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at last upon the dust. That
these bones shall again be covered with their skin; that in my flesh
I shall see God. I myself shall behold him; mine eyes shall behold
him, and not another.”

This rapid incursion into the world beyond the tomb, with which the Semitic races were never familiar, and which they appeared in thought to avoid with a singular reserve, contains all the solution of the redoubtable problem; but though the question was settled, the arguments of the pitiless sages began again with renewed volubility, until the voice of God himself interposed, on behalf of his servant, to silence them.

The words quoted above contain evident allusions to traditions and dogmas which appear to have become obscure or been forgotten among the Semitic races. This profession of faith remains isolated, without a precedent which explains it; there is, in fact, nothing analogous to it in the most ancient texts of the Pentateuch, in the Songs of Israel, or the promises and teachings of the prophets.

In the family of Israel, with the Mosaic legislation, the primitive world closes and another begins. The doctrines and hopes freshly implanted by God develop like a plant from its seed, each part being necessary to the other parts; but amidst all the Hebraic literature the Book of Job and his profession of faith remain isolated, and on this account the value of both have been disputed by persons interested in lessening their importance. From this point of view, therefore, it is of moment to find an analogous doctrine in the outlying records of a remote antiquity, and to discover the edifice from which this fragment has been detached.

On the rolls of linen and papyrus preserved in the tombs of Thebes or of Serapeum we find not only the belief mentioned in the Book of Job, but the very expressions there made use of. On these rolls not only is this belief repeated in a multitude of forms, but a community of traditions in the two great families of Sem and Cham is also proved.

Long centuries had elapsed since their dispersion; they were separated not only by their intervening deserts, but by their difference of language, customs, laws, and worship; and yet, where the Semitic text is obscure, we have but to compare it with the writings left by the old Egyptians to make clear its meaning.

The opening words of the quotation above apparently allude to some contemporary usage well known to the patriarch and his friends, but still not in use among themselves: “_Who_ shall grant that my words may be written ... and engraved in the flint-stone?” M. Ancessi asks if we have not here an allusion to the _styles_ or small obelisks which then abounded in the temples and tombs of Egypt, and which, if not in use among the tribes of the land of Uz, had nevertheless been seen by these families of shepherds in their distant wanderings. Besides the great inscriptions commemorating the conquests of the Pharaos, there are, in or near the Egyptian temples, at the gates of the tombs, or within the sepulchral chambers, innumerable smaller monuments placed there by private individuals, and inscribed with their confession of faith. Of this we shall speak further on.

Numerous passages in the Book of Job seem to indicate that he had visited the land of Egypt,[135] and, among these, allusion is made to the tombs of the “kings and counsellors of the earth,” with whom he would fain “be at rest,” and “with princes, who possess abundance of gold and fill their dwellings with silver”[136] (alluding to the Egyptian custom of heaping precious objects in the tombs for the use of the departed at the resurrection). Like them, Job desired to leave his tablet, in which, after the manner of the commemorative obelisks of the valley of the Nile, he would declare the innocence of his life, his faith in a divine Avenger, in the resurrection of the body, and the vision of Him who recompenses the just and punishes the wicked.

Footnote 135:

Job viii. 2. Take, for instance, the description of the papyrus (Job
viii. 11); the allusion to the rush-boats which are used on the Nile
(ch. ix. 26), and to the hippopotamus, under the name of Behemoth, the
Hebrew translation of the Egyptian _pihémout_, or river-horse, and
which is described as “sleeping in the shadow of the lotus, in the
covert of the reeds, and in the marshes;... compassed about by the
willows of the brook” (Job xl. 16). Again, in ch. xxviii. 1-11, there
may be an allusion to the mines worked by the Egyptians on Mt. Sinai,
where also are numerous inscriptions left by that people on the rocks.

Footnote 136:

Job iii. 13-15. In the papyri of Neb-Qed in the Louvre, in a gallery
parallel to the great hall where the sarcophagus is placed, we see a
coffer, a mirror, a collyrium-case, a pair of sandals, a cane, a vase
for unguent, another for ablutions, a third for perfumes. The kings
and queens took with them into the tomb also their jewels and richest
garments, so sure were they of their resurrection. The ordinary
dwellings of the Egyptians were small, built of wood or unbaked
bricks, but their tombs, the “_Eternal Abodes_,” were of granite. Not
a house, not a palace of ancient Egypt is now standing, but their
tombs and sepulchral pyramids will probably last as long as our
planet. The Hebrews, after the example of the Egyptians, appear to
have had treasure buried with them. Josephus relates that Herod, being
in want of money, made a nocturnal descent into the tomb of King
David. He found there no money, but “_aurea ornamenta multumque
supellectilis prætiosæ, quæ omnia abstulit_.”—_Ant. Jud._ lib. xiv.
cap. vii. p. 724, Ed. Oxford.

The funereal inscriptions of ancient Egypt are of two kinds: those written on rolls of papyrus or linen bands, enveloping the body of the mummy or enclosed with it inside the sarcophagus; and the incised monuments of stone or granite, erected in the chambers or cut in the walls of the tombs and temples and at the entrance of the pyramids.

Almost all the texts[137] found upon the mummies are extracts from a book which Champollion called the _Ritual_, but which is now styled the _Todtenbuch_, or Book of the Dead; the term “ritual” being confined to the liturgical manuals relating to the ceremonies of inhumation, etc., some curious copies of which may be seen in the Louvre.

Footnote 137:

The faithful in the middle ages were frequently interred with their
profession of faith, the _Credo_ and _Confiteor_, or sometimes also
the very text from the Book of Job which we are about to consider.

The _Todtenbuch_ is a collection of hymns, prayers, and theological instructions, divided into one hundred and sixty-five chapters, with their titles and rubrics. These rubrics, as in the Catholic missals and breviaries, consist of a few words in red ink to guide the celebrant. The titles of the chapters are also in red. The lines are usually vertical, and, in the richer copies, the upper margin of the roll is adorned, by the side of the title of each chapter, with an illustration or vignette representing the subject there treated. Finally, a whole page is taken up by a picture of the judgment of souls and the ingathering of the harvest in the blessed fields of Ker-Neter.