NOTRE DAME DE LOURDES.
“THOU WEL OF MERCY, SINFUL SOULES CURE.”—CHAUCER.
Lourdes, apart from any religious interest, is well worth a visit, for it is an old historic place. “Bigerronum arx antiqua fuit Luparda, quæ nunc Lourda est,” says Julius Scaliger. It is associated with the Romans, the Moors, the paladins of Charlemagne, and the flower of French and English chivalry, and is celebrated by Gregory of Tours, Froissart, Monstrelet, and all the ancient chroniclers of the land. Situated at the entrance of the seven valleys of the Lavedan on the one side, and the rich sunny plains of Béarn on the other, under a sky as soft and bright as that of Italy, it is as attractive to the eye of the tourist as to the soul of the archæologist and the pilgrim.
We arrived at Lourdes in less than an hour after leaving Tarbes. The station is some distance from town, and at least a mile from the world-famous grotto; but there are always hacks and omnibuses eager to take the visitor to one of the numerous hotels. The depot is encumbered with luggage and crowded with pilgrims going and coming, and on the side tracks are long trains of empty cars that tell of the importance of the station—an importance solely due to the immense number of pilgrims, who sometimes amount to five hundred thousand a year.
On leaving the station, one naturally looks around to discover the renowned sanctuary of Notre Dame de Lourdes, but not a glimpse of it is to be seen. Nothing meets the eye but a gray picturesque town shut in by the outlying Pyrenees. Nothing could be lovelier than the fresh green valley in which it stands, framed by hills whose sides are blackened with débris from the immense quarries of slate. It is only a pleasant walk to the town in good weather, which gives one an opportunity of taking in the features of the charming landscape. Flowers bloom in the hedge-rows, elms and ash-trees dot the grassy meadows, the hillsides beneath the quarries are luxuriant with vineyards and fields of waving grain. The way is lively with hurrying pilgrims, all intent on their own business and regardless of you; some saying their rosaries, others in a band singing some pious hymn, and many solitary ones absorbed in their own reflections.
We soon reach the town. The houses are of stone with slated roofs. Nearly every one is a hotel, or a lodging-house, or a shop for the sale of religious objects. The windows are full of rosaries, medallions inscribed with the words of the Virgin to Bernadette, miniature grottos, photographs—in short, everything that can recall the wonderful history of the grotto of Massabielle. The very silk kerchiefs in the windows, such as the peasants wear on their heads, are stamped with the Virgin in her niche. The old part of the town has narrow streets, without any sidewalks, paved with cobble-stones quite in harmony with the penitential spirit of a true pilgrim. They are mere lanes, fearful in muddy weather when crowded with people in danger at every step from the carriages.
The Hotel de la Grotte is the nearest to the church of Notre Dame de Lourdes, and very pleasantly situated at a convenient walking distance from it. At one of our visits to the place, we stopped at the Hotel des Pyrénées in the heart of the town, where we were made very comfortable; but the second time, it was in the height of the season, and there was not a room to be had in any of the hotels, and had we not providentially stumbled on a friend with a vacant room at his command, we might have been forced to spend the night in the church—no great penance, to be sure, in so heavenly a place, where Masses begin at midnight and do not cease till afternoon. The only safe way is to secure rooms beforehand, especially when the place is most frequented.
Lourdes is a small town of about five thousand inhabitants, mostly workers in marble, slate, etc., that is, those who do not keep a hotel, or a café, or a shop of some kind; for the good people seem quite ready to avail themselves of every opportunity of benefiting by the piety that brings so many strangers among them. They are shrewd, quick-witted, upright, and kind-hearted; attached to their ancient traditions, and firm in their faith as their rock-built houses. They have always been characterized by their devotion to the Blessed Virgin. Five of the chapels in the parish church are dedicated to her honor. The confraternities of the Scapular and the Rosary are flourishing, and the congregation of the Enfants de Marie is one of the oldest in the country. The dark-eyed women of Lourdes have a Spanish look, and are quite picturesque in their scarlet capulets or black capuchins, but the men have mostly laid aside the Bigorrais cloak, once so sought after that they were exported from the country, and mentioned by learned men. Pope Gregory I., in a letter to Eulogius, Bishop of Alexandria, thus alludes to them: “Sex minora Aquitanica pallia.” S. Paulinus of Nola, in a letter to Ausonius, says: “Dignaque pellitis habitas deserta Bigerris.” “Bigerricam vestem, brevem atque hispidam,” says Sulpicius Severus. And the poet Fortunatus, in his life of S. Martin, says: “Induitur sanctus hirsuta Bigerrica palla.”
These Marlottes, as Scaliger calls them, are now mostly confined to the mountaineers who cling to the old ways. The people of the valley, however, have not laid aside all their old prejudices with their cloaks. The natives of Lourdes are said to hold in proud disdain those who have had the disadvantage of being born elsewhere, in proof of which it is related that a prisoner of state, named Soulié, once confined in the castle for some offence, at last died from the effects of his captivity. His fellow-prisoners, desirous of showing him suitable honor, as well as giving proper expression to their own regret, paid the bell-ringer to toll a bell of the second class. It appears there were four bells in use for funerals; the first for the clergy; the second, for the grandees of the place; the third, for the common citizen, and the fourth for the poor. The inhabitants were so enraged that such an honor as a bell of the second class should be rung for a stranger, that they condemned the guilty sexton to prison. During his long confinement, he was frequently heard exclaiming with a groan: “Ah! detestable Soulié! Had it only been a savate,[157] I should not be here!”
This is a mere reminiscence of their ancient glory. It is always difficult to bring one’s self to the level of fallen fortunes. The title of stranger is still said to be an original stain that nothing can ever efface. Small and unpretending as Lourdes may now seem, it has its grand old memories. Its origin is lost in the obscurity of remote ages, but where history is at fault, fable generally comes to the rescue.
The glory of founding Lourdes is attributed to an Ethiopian princess. Tarbis, queen of Ethiopia, captivated by the valor and personal attractions of Moses, offered him her throne and hand. Wounded and mortified at his refusal, she abandoned her country to hide her disappointment in the obscurity of the Pyrenean valleys. She founded the city of Tarbes, and her sister Lorda that of Lourdes.
In the Middle Ages the Counts of Bigorre were the Seigneurs of Lourdes, and, like S. Louis under the oak of Vincennes, they seated themselves with patriarchal simplicity on a stone bench under an elm before the church to receive the homage of their vassals. Notre Dame de Bigorre! was then the battle-cry of the people. Then, as now, Mary was the Sovereign Lady of the valley. To her its lords acknowledged themselves vassals and paid tribute, and the arms of the town commemorate her miraculous intervention to deliver it from the hands of the Moors. But as this legend is connected with the history of the castle, we will give a brief sketch of that once strong hold.
The tourist, on his way to Pau, Cauteréts, St. Sauveur, or Bagnères, as he traverses the plateau which overlooks the fertile valley of the Gave, sees an ancient fortress on the top of an inaccessible cliff, that rises straight up from the banks of the river. This is the old citadel of Lourdes, the key of the Seven Valleys, the stronghold of the Counts of Bigorre in the Middle Ages. The eye of the traveller cannot fail to be struck by the antiquity of its gray battlements, crenellated towers, and picturesque situation, and he at once feels it has a marvellous history.
The castle of Lourdes is more than two thousand years old. Here the ancient inhabitants long held out against the attacks of the Romans; and here, when they were forced to yield, their conquerors built the fortifications whose indestructible foundation ages have passed over without leaving any trace. Several centuries later, the castle of Mirambel, as it was then called, was held by the Moors, and their leader, Mirat, defended it for a time against the hosts of Charlemagne, and at length, too haughty to yield to any earthly power, surrendered to the Queen of Heaven, who wrought such a miracle of grace on the proud painim’s heart that he and all his followers went with garlands of hay on their lances to swear fealty to Notre Dame de Puy, and resign all right to Mirambel. Mirat was baptized by the name of Lorus. He received the honors of knighthood, and gave the name of Lordum to the castle he now held in the name of the Virgin.
We are indebted to an English monk, named Marfin, for this legend, and though rejected by many, it was doubtless founded on the popular traditions of the country, which alone account for the arms of the town and the annual tribute the Counts of Bigorre paid to Notre Dame de Puy as long as they held possession of the castle.[158]
Lo ric castel de Lorda having been taken possession of by the Albigenses in the XIIth century, the celebrated Simon de Montfort besieged it, but in vain. The castle remained in their hands till the end of the war.
No one of English origin can look at the hoary walls of this ancient fortress without the greatest interest, for it is associated with the memory of the Black Prince, and the time was when the banner of England floated from its towers and defied the efforts of the bravest knights of France to tear it from its hold.
Lourdes, as well as the whole province of Bigorre (which lay between Béarn and Foix), fell into the hands of the English by the treaty of Bretagne, and constituted a part of the Duchy of Aquitaine, which Edward III. conferred on his son, the Black Prince, who left England to take possession of his domains in 1363. He made Bordeaux his capital, and there, in the church of S. André, Jehan Caubot, consul of Lourdes, and the representatives of Tarbes and other towns, presented themselves at high noon before the most noble and puissant Lord Edward, Prince of Wales and Duke of Aquitaine, and, in the presence of many lords, knights, and citizens, swore fealty to the English prince, beseeching him to confirm the rights and franchises which they had hitherto enjoyed, which he solemnly promised.
The Count of Armagnac (John I.) gave so captivating a description of the beauty of Bigorre that the Black Prince was induced to visit his mountain province. He remained for some time at Tarbes, and while there explored the neighboring valleys, strengthened old fortresses and built several new ones. He was particularly struck with the castle of Lourdes, and the advantage of holding such a position. “It is the key of many countries,” said he, “by which I can find my way into Aragon, Catalonia, and Barcelona.” He strengthened its fortifications, and entrusted the command to Pierre Arnaud of Béarn, a cousin of Gaston Phœbus of Foix, saying: “Master Arnaud, I constitute and appoint you captain of Lourdes, and warden of Bigorre. See that you hold them, and render a good account of your trust to me and my father.”
Arnaud swore fealty to the Prince, who soon after broke up his court at Tarbes and returned to Bordeaux. He could not have left a better commander at Lourdes. Arnaud was one of those men who would rather face death a thousand times than be untrue to their word. He held the castle long after all the rest of Bigorre had been wrested from the English, and the exploits of the brave knights that took refuge here made it the terror of the surrounding country. Froissart’s account of their adventures is more like that of highwaymen than of chivalrous knights. They were continually coming down from their eyry at the head of a band, to scour the country and plunder all they could lay their hands upon. Sometimes they extended their ravages to Toulouse, Alby, and Carcassone, taking castles, robbing merchants and attacking knights, and then rushing back to Lourdes with their booty—cattle, provisions, prisoners they could ransom, etc. They only respected the rights of Gaston Phœbus, their captain’s kinsman.
It is related of Mongat that on one occasion he put on the habit of a monk, and with three of his men similarly attired, he took his way with devout air and mien to Montpellier, where he alighted at the Angel and gave out he was a lord abbot from Upper Gascony on his way to Paris on business. Here he made the acquaintance of the Sire Berenger, who was likewise going to Paris on some affair of importance, and was delighted to be thrown into such holy company. The pretended abbot led him by devious ways to Lourdes, where he ransomed him for a large sum.
In one of his adventures, Mongat came to his end. He had been to Toulouse with two other knights and one hundred and twenty lances, and on their way back with cattle, hogs, sheep, and prisoners, they were attacked by two hundred knights, with the brave Ernauton Bissette at their head, in a forest belonging to the Sire de Barbazan. The fury with which they fought was only equalled by their knightly courtesy. When exhausted, they took off their helmets, refreshed themselves at a stream, and then resumed the contest. Mongat and Ernauton fought hand to hand the whole day, and at length, utterly exhausted, they both fell dead on the field. Hostilities then ceased. Each party bore away its dead, and a cross was raised on the spot where they fell.
Of course the whole country around was eager to dislodge the English from their fortress. The Duke of Anjou, with the celebrated Du Guesclin, attacked it at the head of fifteen thousand of the best soldiers of France. All the other castles of Bigorre had been taken. Tarbes had been readily given up by the captain who had sworn to defend it. Mauvezin had gallantly held out for a time, and then honorably surrendered. Lourdes alone bade defiance to the enemy. The town, built on a slope at the east of the castle, resisted the duke’s army a fortnight. The inhabitants finally took refuge in the castle, and the French took possession of the empty houses, with great rejoicing. For six weeks they laid siege to the castle, but in vain. The duke now sought to obtain it by bribing Arnaud with vast sums of money, but the incorruptible captain replied:
“The fortress is not mine. It is the property of the King of England, and I cannot sell, alienate, or give it up, without proving myself a traitor, which I will not. I will remain loyal to my liege lord on whose hand I swore by my faith, when he appointed me governor of this castle, to defend it against all men, and to yield it to no one whom he had not authorized to demand it, and Pierre Arnaud will keep to his trust till he dies.”
Discouraged and mortified, the duke raised the siege and set fire to the four quarters of the town, which was wholly consumed, with all the titles of the ancient fors and rights. He now determined to obtain the castle by some other means, and despatched a messenger to Gaston Phœbus to convince him it was for his interest to use his influence in driving the English from Lourdes. The count promised to do so and invited Arnaud to Orthez. Somewhat suspicious of his intentions, Arnaud, before leaving Lourdes, appointed his brother John commander of the fortress, making him swear by his faith and honor as a knight to guard it as faithfully as he had done himself, and never to yield it to any one but him who had entrusted it to their care.
John solemnly swore as he was desired, and his brother proceeded to Orthez, where he was graciously received by the Count of Foix. It was not till the third day he was summoned to give up the castle. Arnaud at once comprehended the danger of his situation, but undauntedly replied: “My lord, I doubtless owe you duty and regard, for I am a poor knight of your land and race, but the castle of Lourdes I cannot surrender. You have sent for me and can do with me whatever you please, but what I hold from the King of England, I will surrender to no one but him.”
“Ha, traitor!” cried the count in a rage, drawing his dagger, “do you tell me you will not do it? By my head, you shall pay for such a speech”; and he stabbed him to the heart.
Arnaud cried: “Ah! my lord, you act not as beseemeth gentle knight. You invited me here and it is thus you put me to death.”
This base act did no good. John was as faithful to his trust as his brother Arnaud. His appointment was confirmed by the King of England,[159] and the English flag was not taken down till the year 1425, when the citadel of Lourdes surrendered to John of Foix, the companion in arms of Dunois the brave, and the illustrious Barbazan, first to be styled Sans peur et sans reproche. Then the war-cry, “S. George for Lourdes!” was heard for the last time in the land, and the red flag of England taken down for ever.
Lourdes was attacked by the Huguenots in 1573. The town was taken by assault, pillaged, and partly burned, but they made no impression on the castle. A cry of alarm, however, resounded all through the Seven Valleys. The mountaineers of Lavedan knew the importance of the castle, which, once taken, would expose them to an invasion it would be impossible to resist, and they seized their arms and gathered under the banners of the lords of Vieuzac and Arras to defend the entrance to their valleys. The Huguenots, astonished at their determined resistance, were obliged to retreat to Béarn.
The union of Bigorre with the crown of France by Henry IV. was favorable to the prosperity and happiness of Lourdes, but fatal to the military importance of the castle. After being for ages the chief defence of the land, it now became the most unimportant fortress in the country.
In the XVIIIth century it was made the Bastile of the Pyrenees—a prison “created by despotism on the frontiers of liberty”—and was called the Royal Prison of Lourdes. Here, as the Comte de Marcellus says:
“Dans d’effroyables cachots,
Entouré d’épaisses ténèbres,
Plus d’un captif, couché sous des voûtes funèbres,
Attendrissait leurs lugubres échos
Par ses gémissements, ses pleurs et ses sanglots.
…
Sous ses sombres donjons, l’œil, d’abime en abime,
Voit le Gave rouler et bondir furieux;
Et les monts hérissés qui portent jusqu’ aux cieux
De leurs rocs décharnés l’inaccessible cime,
Redoublent la tristesse et l’horreur de ces lieux.”
Père Lacombe, the spiritual director, or rather disciple, of the famous Mme. Guyon, was confined in the castle of Lourdes in 1687. The see of Tarbes was vacant at the time, but when a bishop was appointed, in 1695, he obtained the deliverance of the poor prisoner, who did not, however, enjoy his liberty long. His mind became so affected that he was again confined at Charenton, where he died.
In the time of Napoleon I., Lord Elgin, the famous spoliator of the Parthenon, on his way back from Constantinople, came for the recovery of his health to the springs of Barrèges, where he was arrested by the government and brought to the castle of Lourdes. He characteristically profited by his confinement here to strip the fortress of all the antiquities he could secure, and carry them off to his residence in Fifeshire.
The castle ceased to be a prison at the restoration of the monarchy. It is now a military post, and accessible to the tourist, who enters a postern gate at the east, and ascends the cliff by a winding stone staircase, at the top of which he comes out on a court with a clump of trees and a few flowers, guarded by a sentinel ferocious-looking enough to strike terror into the heart of the fearless Barbazan himself, but whom we found to be the mildest of warriors, and the most accommodating of guides around the old château-fort. Unless you looked at him, you would never have supposed him brought up on the marrow of lions!
From the battlements there is a magnificent view of the valley of the Gave. Never was fairer picture framed among majestic mountains. The river flows directly beneath, through a meadow of wonderful freshness. On the right bank stands the spacious monasteries of Mt. Carmel and S. Benedict, not yet completed, and the other side, directly in front of the castle, rises the new fortress of Our Lady of Lourdes—stronghold of the faith—where the whole world comes, like the ancient Barons of Bigorre, to pay tribute to Mary. It is high time to turn our steps thither.
Leaving the town of Lourdes by a narrow street to the west, we come out into the open valley in full view of the Gave—a clear, broad stream, fed by mountain torrents, which rushes impetuously over a rocky bed towards the Adour and the ocean. It comes from the south, but here turns abruptly away from the cliff—that rises straight up from its banks to the height of three hundred feet, crowned with its old historic castle—and flows to the west. In this sharp bend of the river is the cliff of Massabielle, from the side of which rises before us into the clear blue heavens a tall spire with a golden cross. It is the celebrated church of Notre Dame de Lourdes, a pure white edifice worthy of the spotless Virgin whose immaculate purity it commemorates—the object of so many vows, the spot to which so many hearts are turned, and so many feet are wending, from every part of the Christian world.
The road between the town and church is bordered by small booths for the sale of rosaries, medals, and every conceivable object of devotion, including pilgrims’ staves and scallop shells, and stacks of tall candles to burn before Our Lady of Lourdes. There are over two hundred of these little shops, altogether too many for the place, though there is a pretty brisk trade during the season of pilgrimages. At every step you are called upon to buy, just as at Loretto, the owner advertising his wares with the volubility and something of the style of the London apprentices in the time of Lord Nigel. Crossing the bridge, we stop to look down into the clear, green, turbulent waters of the Gave. The mountaineers say reproachfully to their troublesome wives: “Maridat lou Gabé, que staré”—Marry the Gave, and it will remain quiet. However refractory this virgin stream may be, the valley is peaceful enough to bring the heart and soul into harmony with the place we are approaching. All along the wayside are the blind and the lame in every stage of horrible infirmity, appealing to the charity of the passers-by in the name of the Sainte Vierge of Lourdes, which no one can resist in the very sight of her altar, and we stop every now and then to buy, in this way, “a pennyworth of paradise,” like the prudent M. Géborand, of miserable memory. We pick our way along through the crowds of pilgrims, going and coming with arms full of tapers and great wooden rosaries, and a bleeding heart upon their breasts, like a decoration. We are thrust aside by a procession hurrying off to the station, joyously singing some song of praise, and we turn for a moment into a soft green meadow on the banks of the river, with pleasant winding paths among umbrageous trees, leading to an immense ring with rustic roof and open sides, provided with seats and tables of beautiful Pyrenean marble—where pilgrims can rest and take their lunch—the gift of M. Henri Lasserre, the author of “Our Lady of Lourdes,” so admirably translated for The Catholic World. At one end of the meadow is a pretty châlet given the Bishop of Tarbes by some pious individual for his residence when he comes to Lourdes. Turning into the road again, we come to a fork—one path leading up over the cliff to the church, and the other along the shore of the river beneath. Taking the latter, we find a chain stretched across the way, beyond which no vender of holy wares can go, or carriage pass. We keep on beneath the cliff of Massabielle, crowned with its fair white church far above our heads. The few rods that separate it from the Gave is crowded with people. We hurry on. A slight turn brings us suddenly before the Grotto of the Apparition, towards, which every eye is turned.…
“O Light Divine!
Thy Presence and thy power were here.”
No words can express the emotions of the heart at the very sight of this place of benediction. You at once feel it has some mysterious connection with the unseen world. A thousand memories of its history, its eighteen apparitions, its countless miracles, come over you. You forget the crowd around you. Like the rest, you kneel on the pavement to adore and pray.…
The grotto has wisely been left to nature. It stands open, facing the Gave, tapestried with ivy, and rosebushes, and pretty ferns that grow in the clefts of the rocks. The birds that build their nests among the vines undisturbed are flying to and fro, their songs filling the air above the hushed crowd. On one side of the grotto in a small niche—the very place where Bernadette beheld the Marvellous Vision—is a statue of the Virgin of pure white Carrara marble, standing with folded hands, palm to palm, and uplifted eyes. A blue girdle is tied around the waist, a crystal rosary hangs from her arm, and Je suis l’Immaculée Conception, in silver letters, form a glory around her head.
The grotto is all aflame with an immense pyramidal stand of tapers. Enormous wax candles, several inches in circumference, burn on the pavement among pots of lilies. The sides of the cave are hung with innumerable crutches, canes, shoes, models of hands and arms, etc., etc., in pious commemoration of the wonderful cures wrought here. The pavement is strewn with bouquets of beautiful flowers and more practical offerings in the form of money, voluntarily thrown in to aid in the construction of the church. Letters peep out of the clefts of the rocks, each with its tale of suffering, its prayer for aid.
Of course every pilgrim wishes to enter the grotto, examine it, touch it with his hands, and kiss it with profound respect. He wishes to pluck a branch from the vine around the niche of the Virgin, and even appropriate a fragment of the walls. The necessity will at once be seen of placing some bounds to the manifestations of a piety praiseworthy in its nature, but serious in its results. To protect the grotto, therefore, a solid iron grating bars the entrance, but allows a clear view of the interior. It is unlocked from time to time to admit a knot of pilgrims, so all can have an opportunity of praying in so sacred a place. Before the grating kneel countless pilgrims in the open air, on the cold pavement which extends to the very edge of the Gave, thrust back from its course to give additional space. There are a few benches for the weary and infirm. The different classes of people gathered here, the variety of costumes worn by peasants from different provinces, and the clergy and sisters of various orders, to say nothing of the fashionable dresses of the upper classes, are a study for the artist who has set up an easel before the stone bench along the banks of the river. Beyond is a long avenue of trees furnished with seats where pilgrims are gathered in knots around huge lunch-baskets. At the left of the grotto are several faucets over a long stone basin, fed by water from the miraculous fountain. Over them is the inscription: “Allez boire à la fontaine et vous laver.” Around are crowded people drinking the healing waters, or filling their cans and bottles to carry away. Close by is a room furnished with cans of all dimensions for the accommodation of the pilgrim. Beyond are the bathing rooms, to so many a pool of Siloam where the angel is never weary of troubling the waters. Around these doors of hope is always a sad array of the blind, the deaf, the lame, and the paralytic.
No wonder miracles are wrought here. There is such simple, unbounded faith in the divine mercy and power, that mountains might be moved. What would be marvellous elsewhere, only seems the natural order of things here. Dr. Dozous, a physician of the place—who often accompanied Bernadette in her visits to the grotto, and has watched with interest the gradual development of the devotion to Notre Dame de Lourdes; and witnessed a great number of miracles of all kinds, including the cure of those who had been blind, or deaf and dumb, from their birth—says, in a book he has recently published:
“The cures of which I have so often been the ocular witness, and which I am about to relate, have convinced me, beyond the possibility of doubt, of the importance of Bernadette’s visits to the grotto of Massabielle, and the reality of the visions she was there favored with.”
M. Artus, an Alsace refugee at Bordeaux, whose niece had been miraculously cured of a serious malady by recourse to Notre Dame de Lourdes, has offered ten thousand francs to any one who will prove the falseness of any of the statements in M. Lasserre’s book, but, though two years have since passed, no one has been found quite ready to take up the offer.
Miracles are so constantly wrought here, that not half of them are recorded. Five occurred the day before our arrival, one, a deaf-mute to whom the faculty of speech was instantaneously given. We dared not hope to witness anything of the kind, nor did we need it to increase our faith in the power of Omnipotence, though human nature is always seeking some sign. But the piety of the multitude around obtained the grace we should not have ventured to ask for ourselves. We were praying one morning in the grotto, when suddenly there was an unusual movement in the crowd without, and an increasing wave-like murmur that broke at last into a tumultuous shout. A gentleman beside us seemed to catch the meaning, for he sprang up and exclaimed at the top of his voice, Vive Marie! which was answered by hundreds of voices. The effect was electrical, and the feeling that came over us was something new in our experience. Tears sprang to the eye. We hurried out of the grotto, and the movement of the crowd brought us close to a young girl raised above the excited multitude, pale, smiling with joy, and waving a hand covered with the marks of ineffectual human remedies, and that had been utterly paralyzed an hour before. Every one crowded around her to see, examine, test the use of her arm, and assure themselves of the truth of the case. She had been fourteen months in a hospital at Marseilles, and had come with a large number of pilgrims from that place who were ready to testify to her previous helplessness. The whole scene was thrilling. Bands of pilgrims with blue badges of the Virgin sang hymns of joy. A wave of excitement every now and then passed over the crowd and found vent in repeated vivas. The girl was finally released from the examination and admitted into the grotto, when the Magnificat was intoned.
The cliff of Massabielle has been cut down and levelled off to serve as the foundation of the church, which stands on the top at a distance of seventy or eighty feet directly above the grotto. The title of minor basilica was conferred on it by His Holiness Pius IX., in March, 1874. A path leads up to it from the shore, its windings along the edge of the cliff forming the monogram of Mary, among hedges of roses and arbor-vitæ, glistening with dew, and overhung with acacias and evergreens—a charming ascent, each step of which leads to a rarer atmosphere, a lovelier and more extended view, and nearer the altar of Mary.
There are two churches, one above the other; the lower one, dim and solemn with penitential gloom; the upper, radiant with the light and purity that ought to surround
“Our tainted nature’s solitary boast.”
Let us first enter the crypt. In the vestibule is a statue of S. Germaine of Pibrac with her crook and legendary apron of roses, and a lamb at her feet—the gift of a band of pilgrims from Toulouse. An arched passage leads each side of the crypt with banners hung over the confessionals in the recesses. Passing through one of these, we found ourselves in a low, gloomy nave crowded with columns to support the upper church. It is chiefly lighted by the numerous lamps hanging on every side, and the large stands of candles that burn before the Virgin, who is over the altar embowered among roses. The pavement is covered with kneeling forms—ladies, soldiers, peasants. You hear the whispered prayer, you catch glimpses of devout faces, quivering lips, and upturned eyes. Everything here is solemn and mysterious, and inclines one to serious reflection. On the pillars hang the different scenes of the great Passion in which we all had so sad a part. They strike new terror into the soul in this sepulchral church that seems hewn out of the living rock.
“Low I sit,
In sorrow, penitence-stricken, and deep woe,
’Mid shades of death, thine arrow drinks my blood;
For I thine innocent side have piercéd deep.
I dare not look upon thy bleeding brow,
For I have circled it with thorny crown,
Thou Holy One, and here I sit and weep,
Bowed with the o’erwhelming burden down to earth.”
The carved confessionals at the end suggest comforting thoughts. There
“The great Absolver with relief
Stands by the door, and bears the key
O’er Penitence on bended knee.”
There are five chapels—a mystic number associated with five sorrowful mysteries—each with two small windows pierced through the thick walls, looking like the loop-holes of a fort. Their sides are covered with votive pictures and small marble tablets with inscriptions, some of which we copy:
“Reconnaissance éternelle à la toute puissante Notre Dame de Lourdes pour la grace qu’elle m’a obtenue.
Paris, 30 Juillet, 1872.
“M. M.”
“Amour et reconnaissance à Notre Dame de Lourdes. Deux cœurs guéris et consolés.”
“A Notre Dame de Lourdes, Colonel L. S.
“6 Aout, 1870.”
“Reconnaissance éternelle à Notre Dame de Lourdes qui a guèri notre fille.”
There is a countless number of similar inscriptions, which are so many leaves torn from domestic histories, extremely touching and suggestive to read. They are eternal expressions of gratitude, which are doubtless pleasing to the Divine Benefactor, who is not regardless of one who returns to give thanks.
Our last visit to the crypt will never be forgotten. We had arrived at Lourdes the evening before, in a pouring rain, which still continued when we went at half-past four in the morning to attend the Mass of a clerical friend. It was with difficulty we made our way into the nave, crammed with pilgrims from Bretagne and La Vendée. The five chapels were filled with priests waiting for their turn to say Mass. Our friend had been there since two o’clock, and it was nearly seven before he found a vacancy at the altar. Masses likewise had been continually succeeding each other since midnight in the fifteen chapels of the church above. The place, it will be seen, is one of perpetual prayer.
Our devotions over at a late hour, we ascended a flight of twenty-six steps, which brought us to a broad terrace before the upper church commanding a lovely view of the valley, with the picturesque old castle directly in front. The sun had come out after the rain, and nothing could be more fresh and enchanting. On the terrace stood the four bells given by the Prince of Viana, and not yet hung. They were baptized August 11, by Cardinal Donnet of Bordeaux, in presence of a numerous crowd, including Don Sebastian de Bourbon, Infante of Spain, the Duc de Nemours, and the Prince of Béarn and Viana.
Before entering the church, we pause in front of the Gothic portal to look up at the representation of our Saviour over the central arch. His face is turned towards Lourdes, a cruciform nimbus surrounds his head, the Alpha and Omega are at the side, and his right hand is raised to bless the pilgrim beneath. At each side are the winged emblems of the Evangelists. And lower down is the Virgin Mother, her hands crossed on her breast, her face,
“The most resembling Christ,”
sweet and thoughtful. She seems to be awaiting all who seek through her the Divine Redeemer, who by her has been given to mankind. Felix cœli porta, we say as we pass beneath.
Entering the church, we are at once struck with its immaculate purity. It is in the style of the XIIIth century. The height is about double the width, which makes the arches seem loftier than they really are. The spotless white walls are relieved by the beautiful banners hanging on every side. There are about four hundred of these banners, richly embroidered with religious symbols and devices, and the arms of different cities and provinces. Conspicuous among them are the banners of Alsace and Lorraine bordered with crape. They were wrought in secret, and brought over the frontier in the night to escape the vigilance of the Prussian police. They were presented by faithful Christians, one of whom was a valiant officer whose breast was covered with decorations, and received by the Archbishop of Auch (to whose province Lourdes belongs), who wept as he pressed them to his lips, affecting the vast crowd to tears.
Around the nave of the church is an unique frieze of votive golden hearts, so arranged as to form inscriptions in immense letters, taken from the words of the Virgin to Bernadette: “Vous prierez pour la conversion des pécheurs. Allez boire à la fontaine et vous y laver.—Allez dire aux prêtres qu’il doit se bâtir ici une chapelle, et qu’on doit y venir en procession.”
The main altar in the centre of the choir is dedicated to the mystery of the Immaculate Conception. It is of pure white marble, and on the front are five compartments on which are sculptured the Annunciation, Visitation, Assumption, Coronation, and the Apparition of the Blessed Virgin in the grotto. The altar is adorned with white lilies. Over it in a golden niche is a statue of Mary Most Pure, “above all women glorified,” the very embodiment of purity and love. Above her, like a crown, is a constellation of beautiful lamps of filigree and enamel. Rich votive offerings are fastened to the walls—crosses of the Legion of Honor, epaulettes, swords crossed above flags, a miniature ship, the mitre of Mgr. Lawrence, etc. On the keystone of the arch are sculptured the arms of Pope Pius IX.
The main altar with its Madonna is the central object in the church, and the focus of its splendor. Around it, like so many rays around the Immaculate Conception, are five apsidal chapels. Directly behind it is the chapel of the Sacred Heart, where of course the Blessed Sacrament is kept. At the left is Notre Dame du Mont Carmel, in honor of the last apparition to Bernadette, which took place on the festival of that name. Next is the chapel of Notre Dame des Victoires, in commemoration of the celebrated archconfraternity at Paris, which has effected so many conversions, wrought so many miracles, and prepared the way, as it were, for the triumph of the Immaculate Conception.
At the right of the chapel of the Sacred Heart is that of Notre Dame du Rosaire, recalling the rosary the Virgin held on her arm in all her apparitions to Bernadette. Then, Notre Dame de la Sallette, reminding us that the tears the Mother of Sorrows once shed over the woes of France in the mountains of Dauphine, have been succeeded by the smiles of Marie Immaculée in the grotto of the Pyrenees.
Each of these five chapels recall the Holy Trinity by the number of their windows, as the rose window in the façade is typical of the Divine Unity. These windows are of stained glass—the gift of the Prince of Viana. The main altar and the statue of the Immaculate Conception are from an anonymous benefactor, and many of the other altars are the gifts of private individuals.
Ten lateral chapels open out of the nave, and communicate with each other for convenience. The four nearest the choir bring around Mary the principal members of her family: S. Anne, S. Joachim, S. Joseph, and S. John the Baptist. Then come the chapel of S. Peter, still living in our “Pope of the Immaculate Conception,” who so glorified Mary on the 8th of December, 1854; S. John, the beloved disciple, who was appointed her son on Mt. Calvary; S. Francis of Assisi, the patriarch of the Seraphic Order that has always been the advocate of the Immaculate Conception; S. Francis Xavier, patron of the Society for the Propagation of the Faith, one of the glories of this age of Mary; S. Bertrand, the illustrious bishop of Commines and the patron saint of Mgr. Lawrence, whose name will ever be associated with the church of Notre Dame de Lourdes; and S. Germaine, the humble shepherdess of Pibrac, so like the little bergère of Lourdes.
Thus four of the great religious orders of the church are represented before the Virgin’s throne—the Carmelite, Dominican, Franciscan, and Jesuit. Each chapel, sacred to some holy mystery, has its beautiful altar, its carved oaken confessional, its circular golden chandelier, its station of the cross, its banners, and its statues.
The carved oak pulpit on the left side of the nave was given by the Bishop of Marseilles.
The windows of the side chapels, that await a donor, will depict the history of Notre Dame de Lourdes, beginning with the first apparition and ending with the consecration of the church. And the clerestory windows will represent the history of the devotion to the Immaculate Conception. The decoration of the church is by no means complete. It is to be in harmony with the architecture, so pure in outline and light in form. In the seventy-six arcatures of the triforium the saints most devoted to the Immaculate Conception are to be represented on a gilt ground.
To see this beautiful church crowded with devout pilgrims, priests at every altar of the fifteen chapels, a grand service going on in the choir with all the solemn pomp displayed in great cathedrals, the numerous clergy in the richest vestments, and to hear the grand music of Palestrina executed with perfect harmony and exquisite taste—the whole congregation heartily joining in the chants, and the peal of the trumpets contrasting admirably with their earnest voices—is to the ravished soul like a vision of the heavenly Jerusalem. The lofty arches seem to sway with the undulations of the music, sometimes soft as the murmur of a rivulet, and again as deep as a mountain torrent falling over rocks. The eye is never weary of gazing at this fair temple with its pure outlines, so harmonious in all its parts, the soft light coming in floods through the lofty windows and mingling with the brilliancy of the lights and flowers; the immense oriflammes hanging from the arches to give testimony to the glory of the Immaculate Conception and the Pontiff who crowned that glory; the mysterious words on the wall that fell from the smiling lips of the Virgin in the grotto; and the Most Pure herself, unveiled to all eyes, standing in the midst of all this splendor above the altar, in a golden atmosphere, raising heavenward her look of inspiration, her hands joined in prayer, her heart swelling with love—adoring love for Him who dwells in the tabernacle; and maternal love for her children gathered around the fountain opened for the salvation of the world. O Immaculate One! we here feel thy sweet presence, and the creative power of thy word: “Go, tell the priests I wish a chapel to be built on this spot.”
Never was greater miracle wrought by humbler instrumentality—never was the Divine Hand more manifest than in the upspringing of this mountain chapel—the lily of the Immaculate Conception, sweetest flower of this age of Mary. Human intelligence is confounded at what has been effected by the mouth of a poor peasant girl of this obscure valley. It grasps at the assurance of faith in Mary who has wrought it. Before her the Gave that beat against the cliff has fallen back—image of the torrent that approached Mary at the moment of her creation, and, just as she was about to receive the fatal stain, the wave of corruption, that bears all of us poor children of Eve on its impure waters, fell back before the ark of the new covenant, Fœderis Arca.
The very cliffs have bowed down at her presence, and these stones, these walls, these columns, these arches, and the fountain of indisputable potency that has sprung out of the bowels of the earth, bear witness to her wonderful apparitions and power.
One of the most imposing spectacles at Lourdes is a procession of pilgrims, especially when seen, as we saw one, from the mount above coming from the town—a very forest of crosses, banners, and lanterns, borne by thousands of people with that slow, measured, solemn, harmonious step that is in itself a prayer. We thought of good Mother Hallahan and her delight in nine miles of prayer. Here were whole leagues of praise.
“On the ear
Swells softly forth some virgin hymn;
The white procession windeth near,
With glimmering lights in sunshine dim.
Mother of Purity and Peace!
They sing the Saviour’s name and thine:
Clothe them forever with the fleece
Unspotted of thy Lamb Divine!”
From one end of the immense procession to the other rose chants without discord—here from a band of maidens and innocent children, yonder from harmonious choirs of maturer years. From time to time a peal of trumpets drowned the murmur of the Gave and awoke the echoes of the mountains. In the procession were hundreds of men organized into pious confraternities as in the Middle Ages. They follow the path taken by Bernadette, when she was irresistibly led on to the place of the wondrous vision. They all stop to make a genuflection where she knelt before the Beautiful Lady, and begin the Litany of Loretto in the sweet plaintive air peculiar to the country. It is delightful to hear Mary’s name swelling along the valley and up the rocky heights! Thus chanting they ascend the winding path on the cliff, forming a living monogram of the Virgin’s name, among roses that give out their perfume, through cedars of Lebanon and other rare trees that bend down their branches laden with dew. And above this verdure, these perfumes, and these chanted supplications, the white marble Church of the Immaculate Conception sends heavenward the silent prayer of its gleaming walls, its pillars, its turrets and pinnacles. They wind around the church like a wreath and disappear within its sculptured portal chanting: Lætatus sum in his quæ dicta sunt mihi—I was glad at the things that were said to me. We will go into the house of the Lord.… Our feet were wont to stand in thy courts, O Jerusalem! Jerusalem which is built as a city that is at unity with itself.… Plenteousness be to them that love thee!
At the particular request of the Prince of Viana, one of the greatest benefactors to the church, his Holiness Pope Pius IX. has granted a partial indulgence to all who visit the church, and a plenary indulgence to those who here approach the sacraments and pray for concord among Christian princes the extirpation of heresies, and the exaltation of our holy Mother the Church.
A winding road leads from the church by gentle ascent up the picturesque mount behind, along which are to be built fifteen chapels in honor of the Mysteries of the Rosary, where the words once spoken by the angel will ascend the mountain side in one long and incessant Ave Maria! Along this holy way will continually ascend and descend the pious votary in “pilgrim’s cowl and lowly weed”
“Dropping on each mystic bead
To Mary, Mother Mild, a contrite tear.”
A certain party, desirous of bringing pilgrimages into disrepute, and inclined to seek some human cause for everything supernatural, attributes a political object to this great crusade of prayer which the impious instinctively tremble before, and not without reason. M. Lasserre thus closes an address to the visitor to Notre Dame de Lourdes:
“Pilgrims of France! Your politics at the grotto of Lourdes is to pray, to begin a new life, to sanctify yourselves, and to become in this corrupt age the chosen righteous who are to save the wicked cities of the land. It is thus you will labor efficaciously for the prosperity of your country and bring back its past splendor and glory. A nation desirous of salvation in heaven, is a nation saved on earth.”
We close by echoing one of the acclamations sung alternately by clergy and people at the solemn celebration in this place of benediction:
V. Omnibus nobis peregrinantibus, et universo Christiano populo, Fidei, Spei, et Charitatis augmentum et gaudium æternum.
R. Amen. Amen. Salvos fac servos tuos, Domine, et benedic hæreditati tuæ, et rege eos, et extolle illos usque in æternum.
Fiat. Fiat. Amen.