From the Lakes of Killarney to the Golden Horn

by Henry M. Field

But though the Romish Church should consecrate ever so many shrines; though it build churches and cathedrals, and rear its flaming crosses on every hill and mountain from the Alps to the Pyrenees; it is not thus that religion is to be enthroned in the hearts of a nation. The fact is not to be disguised that France has fallen away from the faith. It looks on at all these attempts with indifference, or with an amused curiosity. If popular writers notice them at all, it is to make them an object of ridicule. At one of the Paris theatres an actor appears dressed as a Brahmin, and offers to swear "by the sacred heart of a cow" (that being a sacred animal in India). The hit is caught at once by the audience, who answer it with applause. It is thus that the populace of Paris sneer at the new superstition.

Would to God that France might be speedily recovered to a true Christian faith; but it is not to be by any such fantastic tricks or theatrical devices, by shows or processions, by gilded crosses or waving banners, or by going on pilgrimages as in the days of the Crusades. Even the Catholic Church has more efficient instruments at command. The Sisters of Charity in hospitals are far more effective missionaries than nuns behind the bars of a convent, singing hymns to the Virgin, or lamps burning before the shrine of a saint dead hundreds of years ago. If France is ever to be brought back to the faith, it must be by arguments addressed to the understanding, which shall meet the objections of modern science and philosophy; and, above all, by living examples of its power. If Religion is to conquer the modern world; if it is even to keep its present hold among the nations, it must be brought into contact with the minds and hearts of the people as never before; it must grapple with the problems of modern society, with poverty and misery in all its forms. Especially in the great capitals of Europe it has its hardest field, and there it must go into all the narrow lanes and miserable dwellings, it must minister to the sick, and clothe the naked and feed the hungry. France will never be converted merely by dramatic exhibitions, that touch the imagination. It must be by something that can touch the conscience and the heart. Thus only can the heart of France ever be won to "the sacred heart of Jesus."

CHAPTER X.

UNDER THE SHADOW OF MONT BLANC.

The Vale of Chamouni, July 15th.

I did not mean to write anything about Switzerland, because it is such trodden ground. Almost everybody that has been in Europe has been here, and even to those who have not, repeated descriptions have made it familiar. And yet when once among these mountains, the impression comes back fresh and strong as ever, and while the spell is on the traveller, he cannot but wish to impart a little of his enjoyment to friends at home.

We are in the Vale of Chamouni, under the shadow of Mont Blanc. In this valley, shut in by the encircling mountains, one cannot escape from that "awful form" any more than from the presence of God. It is everywhere day and night. We throw open our windows, and it is standing right before us. Even at night the moonlight is glistening on its eternal snows. Thus it forces itself upon us, and must receive respectful homage.

We left Geneva on one of the most beautiful mornings of the year. There has been great lamentation throughout Switzerland this summer, on account of the frequent rains, which have enveloped the mountains in a continual mist. But we have been favored in this respect, both at Geneva and at Chamouni. To set out on a mountain excursion on such a morning, and ride on the top of a diligence, is enough to stir the blood of the most languid tourist. A French diligence is a monstrous affair—a kind of Noah's Ark on wheels—that carries a multitude of living creatures. We had twenty-four persons (three times as many as Noah had in the Ark) mounted on this huge vehicle, to which were harnessed six horses, three abreast. We had the front seat on the top. In such grandeur we rolled out of Geneva, feeling at every step the exhilaration of the mountain air, and the bright summer morning. The postilion was in his glory. How he cracked his whip as we rattled through the little Swiss villages, making the people run to get out of his way, and stare in wonder at the tremendous momentum of his imperial equipage. To us, who sat sublime "above the noise and dust of this dim spot called earth," there was something at once exciting and ludicrous in the commotion we made. But there were other occasions for satisfaction. The day was divine. The country around Geneva rises from the lake, and spreads out in wide, rolling distances, bordered on every side by the great mountains. The air was full of the smell of new-mown hay, while over all hung the bending sky, full of sunshine. Thus with every sense keen with delight, we sat on high and took in the full glory of the scene, as we swept on towards the Alps.

As we advance the mountains close in around us, till we cannot see where we are to find a passage through them. For the last half of the way the construction of the road has been a difficult task of engineering; for miles it has to be built up against the mountain; at other places a passage is cut in the side of the cliff, or a tunnel made through the rock. Yet difficult as it was, the work has been thoroughly done. It was completed by Napoleon III., after Savoy was annexed to France, and is worthy to compare with the road which the first Napoleon built over the Simplon. Over such a highway we rolled on steadily to the end of our journey.