St. Mary's Cathedral was once one of the richest in France, being endowed by the kings of Arragon, Navarre, and of France, and by the Counts of Fezensac and of Armagnac. In those days the archbishop was a magnate in the land. The Counts of Armagnac paid homage to him, and when he came to take possession of his see, the Baron de Montaut, with bared head and one limb bare, awaited him on foot at the gates of the city, took his mule by the bridle, and so conducted him to the cathedral. He was then, as he styles himself now, primate of Novempopulania and of the two Navarres.
One of the old archbishops, of the race of the Counts d'Aure, accompanied Richard the Lion-hearted to Palestine in 1190, and died there the next year.
On Holy Thursday all business was suspended. The streets were crowded with people going to visit the different churches where the Blessed Sacrament was exposed. I visited fourteen churches and chapels. At every turn in the streets were boys erecting little altars and chapels by the way-side, and importuning the passer-by for a sou to aid in fitting them up. Of course, I saw the greater part of the city, which is picturesque, as seen from the valley, but rather ugly when one has mounted the weary flights of steps, and gained its heart. The streets are mostly narrow and treeless, but there are two promenades with fine old trees, and the public buildings are a credit to the place. There is a grand and petit séminiaire here, a lyceum, normal school, two boarding-schools, besides several day and free schools; so there is no lack for means of instruction.
The famous Nostradamus, renowned for his Centuries prophétiques, was once a professor in this place. And St. Francis Regis was regent of the Jesuits' college which was here before the suppression of that order in the last century.
On Good-Friday I went to the chapel of the Carmelites, for the Three Hours' Agony. Daylight was wholly excluded. The altar was fitted up like a Calvary, with a large crucifix on the summit. Tall wax candles burned around it as round a bier. The rest of the chapel was in darkness. The black grating that separates the chancel from the choir of the nuns was so closely curtained that they were wholly invisible. The agony was a paraphrase of the last words of our Saviour upon the cross, making it like seven discourses, or rather meditations. At the end of each part all knelt, while the preacher made an extempore prayer, and then rose a sweet solemn wail of music. One by one the lights around the Calvary were extinguished—a deeper gloom shrouding the chapel and settling on our hearts. At last, only one light was left, emblematic of Him who came to give light to the world. That, too, went out at three o'clock, leaving us in utter darkness. Then the preacher cried: Jesus is dying!—Jesus is dead! All fell on their knees. The most profound silence reigned. When sufficiently recovered from the awe and solemnity which pervaded every heart, all prostrated themselves, and softly left the church. The effect was indescribable. Nothing could so powerfully incite the heart to repentance for sin, and unite it to the sufferings and death of Christ, as this three hours' meditation on his agony upon the cross.
"Holy Mother, pierce me through;
In my heart each wound renew
Of my Saviour crucified!"
After the weight of sorrow that had been accumulating on the heart during the great week of the Passion, you cannot imagine the effect when, on Holy Saturday, the joyful Alleluias rang out with all the bells of the city, which had been hushed for days, announcing the Resurrection. A great rock seemed rolled away from the heart, and hope and joy rose triumphant over sorrow, and anguish, and fear.
On Easter-Sunday I saw something at St. Mary's quite new to me. After mass, a basket of bread was blessed, broken in pieces, and passed around the church. All took a piece, made the sign of the cross, and said a short prayer before eating it. This pain bénti is in commemoration of the Agapae of the primitive Christians, I suppose. It is a common custom here. While still at our devotions, a man came around with a dish, saying in a queer, sing-song tone, Pour les ámes du Purgatoire, (For the souls in purgatory,) and offered the dish as if doing you a favor to receive your mite, which, perhaps, was right enough.