Notre Dame De Garaison.
In the province of Aquitaine, a short distance from the village of Monléon, among the hills of Les Hautes Pyrénées, is a valley bearing the name of Garaison, where stands a votive chapel in honor of the Blessed Virgin. It is a favorite place of pilgrimage for all the country around, which has been approved of by Popes Urban VIII, and Gregory XVI., who have enriched it with indulgences. It was erected in consequence of the apparition of our Blessed Lady on the spot, about the year 1500, to a young shepherdess who was guarding her flock in the valley. The legend is as follows, somewhat abridged. It is supported by most unobjectionable witnesses at the time of the event, by tradition, and the unanimous voice of the country around; by public documents, and by the effects which followed and which still exist. As for me, however, this is of little moment, these legends not being matters of faith. It is sufficient for me to know that the spot in question is one dear to Mary and peculiarly favored by Heaven. It has been sanctified by the sighs of contrition, by the pure confessions, the fervent communions, and the sudden and miraculous conversions of those who have gone thither in honor of the Mother of our Lord.—But the legend:
A young girl of twelve years of age, Anglèse de Sagazan, was guarding her flock near a large hawthorn which shaded a fountain of living water. The deep shade and the soft murmur of the fountain invited repose, and, opening her basket of provisions, the young shepherdess seated herself by the spring to dip her dry brown bread in the clear, cold water. Suddenly a lady of majestic mien, with a serene countenance and gracious regard, clothed in a long, white robe, which fell in graceful folds to her feet, stood before the astonished maiden, who, dazzled by her appearance, remained immovable and speechless. Then our gracious Lady, who loveth the poor and the humble, declared to her that she had chosen this spot as a place of benediction, whereon she wished a shrine erected in her honor, around which her children might gather with more than ordinary assurance. This apparition occurring three days in succession, the maiden related to her father what had happened. He, in turn, reported the occurrence among his neighbors, who were quite incredulous, but yet, through curiosity or inspired by God, flocked to the fountain, where was still to be heard the voice of the Virgin, though no one saw her but the pure eyes of the shepherdess. The people went to seek the curé, and returned to the fountain with banners, chanting hymns in honor of Mary. They erected a large cross on the spot. After that the water of the fountain seemed miraculously changed, and the sick went thither to be healed. The sudden restoration of many to health made the spot celebrated in a short time. The number of miracles increasing, the present elegant vaulted chapel was erected by the voluntary offerings of grateful pilgrims, and there the benediction of Heaven descended upon the votaries of Mary. At this day wonderful are the prodigies wrought on soul and body at the shrine of our Lady of Garaison. Ages ago God healed many who, at the troubling of the waters, descended to the angel-guarded Pool of Siloam. His ways are not as our ways. ...
I made a pilgrimage to Notre Dame de Garaison in June, 18—. The evening before, I went to shrift, by way of preparation, and the next morning left at an early hour with a party of friends, who completely filled our private diligence. There were five of us, and two servants, besides the driver and his more efficient wife. I might call her the driver and him the postilion. Quite a procession we should have made in honor of our Lady of Garaison! We ought to have gone plodding along the highway in sandal shoon and penitential garb, with pilgrim staff and scallop-shell, knocking our breasts as we went, as did the votaries of the middle ages. But in these days, when stout old Christian flies along the celestial railroad with his burden of sin carefully stowed away in the baggage-car, I, a feeble pilgrim, may be excused for seeking as comfortable a seat as could be found in our rickety old diligence. As I got in, I caught a satisfactory glimpse of a large basket, in which were light, crispy pistolets, heaps of deep-red cherries, flasks of water, and bottles of mild vin rouge, which our servant had thoughtfully provided for our outer man. And they were not disdained in our drive of thirty miles. Such due attention having been paid to our bodily wants, we were quite at leisure to abandon ourselves to our spiritual musings or our devotions! Who could wish to have his soul constantly disturbed and pestered by a jaded and craving body? It is quite contrary to the religious as well as philosophic spirit of this enlightened nineteenth century, and though I was somewhat ascetic, and rather inclined to the sterner rules of medieval times, the thought almost reconciled me to my corner, where I braced my weary back, and to the aforesaid basket, whence I fortified my body.
"Ciel!" I exclaimed, as I found myself en diligence and the stone cross of St. Oren's Priory fast disappearing, "have I returned to the middle ages, or am I dreaming?" I could not help rubbing my eyes, and wondering what some of my more enlightened American friends would think, if they could see me seriously, deliberately setting off on a pilgrimage (even in a carriage!) of thirty miles, to pay my devotions at a shrine of the Virgin Mary! But yes—my head was quite sound, though filled with the vows I wished to offer in a spot peculiarly dear to our Lady. This was the first visit I ever made to one of these places of popular devotion, and so, apart from my religious motives, I felt some curiosity to see this mountain chapel, away almost upon the confines of Spain.
The roads are fine in that part of France, and bordered by magnificent shade-trees. Owing to recent rains, we had no dust. We passed waving wheat-fields, luxuriant vineyards hedged with hawthorn, and away on the neighboring hills was many an old château with its venerable towers, and hard by an antique church. I found everything novel, and consequently interesting. Going and returning we stopped at most of the villages. In every one we found an old vaulted stone church, with thick walls and doors, ever open to the passer-by. In each were several chapels, adorned with oil paintings, bas-reliefs, and statues of the saints, and in every church were the stations of Via Crucis well painted, and the little undying lamp of olive oil burning near the gilded tabernacle—announcing the presence of the Divinity—the Shekinah of the new Israel—and recalling the beautiful lines of Lamartine:
"Pâle lampe du sanctuaire,
Pourquoi dans l'ombre du saint lieu,
Inaperçue et solitaire,
Te consumes-tu devant Dieu?
"Ce n'est pas pour diriger l'aile
De la prière ou de l'amour,
Pour éclairer, faible étincelle,
L'oeil de celui qui fit le jour.
......
"Mon oeil aime à se suspendre
A ce foyer aérien;
Et je leur dis, sans les comprendre.
Flambeaux pieux, vous faites bien.
"Peutêtre, brillantes parcelles
De l'immense création,
Devant son trône imitent-elles
L'éternelle adoration.
"C'est ainsi, dis-je à mon âme,
Que de l'ombre de ce bas lieu
Tu brûles, invisible flamme,
En la présence de ton Dieu.
"Et jamais tu n'oublies
De diriger vers lui mon coeur,
Pas plus que ces lampes remplies
De flotter devant le Seigneur." [Footnote 187]
[Footnote 187: In the absence of a suitable poetic version of the above, we subjoin—for such of our readers as are not familiar with the language of the original—the following prose translation of it, from Digby's Ages of Faith:
"Pale lamp of the Sanctuary, why, in the obscurity of the Holy Place, unperceived and solitary, consumest thou thyself before God? It is not, feeble spark! to give light to the eye of him who made the day: it is not to dispel darkness from the steps of his adorers. The vast nave is only more obscure before thy distant glimmering. And yet, symbolic lamp, thou guardest thy immortal fire, thou dost flicker before every altar, and mine eyes love to rest suspended on this aerial hearth. I say to them, I comprehend not; ye pious flames, ye do well. Perhaps these bright particles of the immense creation imitate before his throne the eternal adoration! It is thus, say I to my soul, that, in the shade of this lower place, thou burnest, a flame invisible, a fire which remains unextinguished, unconsumed, by which incense can be at all times rekindled to ascend in fragrance to heaven!">[
In these churches there was always an altar to the Virgin, too, adorned with lace and flowers, and streaming with gay ribbons and pennons, after the taste of the country. In one we found a wedding party, and were in season to hear the Ego conjungo vos of the curé over a very modest and subdued-looking pair.
We often passed huge crosses of wood or stone erected by the wayside, to which were attached the instruments of the Passion. I noticed among the passers-by that the women made the sign of the cross and the men raised their hats. I did not find the villages very agreeable. The houses were of stone, with tiled roofs, and had a cold, forbidding look. The paved streets were narrow, with no sidewalks, and anything but cleanly. I thought of our fresh New England villages, their white cottages and green blinds, and front yards filled with flowers and shrubbery. But those of France were more antique and more picturesque—at a distance. Flocks of sheep dotted the country, each guarded by a shepherdess, who wore a bright scarlet capuchon, which covers the head and falls below the waist. It is picturesque, if not graceful, and at a distance the wearer looks like one of her native but overgrown coquelicots. They were generally spinning, after the manner of the country, with the distaff under one arm and twirling the spindle in the hand, thus laying their hands to the spindle and their hands hold of the distaff after the manner of Old Testament times. How they contrive to spin with these two instruments is past my comprehension, but they do succeed admirably.