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: