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 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
Rt. Rev. Alexander MacDonald, D. D. 
 
STRAY LEAVES 
 
 OR 
 
 TRACES of TRAVEL 
 
 m 
 
 BY 
 
 RT. REV. ALEX. MacDONALD, D.D. 
 
 BISHOP OF VICTORIA, B. C. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 CHRISTLA.N PRESS ASSOCIATION 
 
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 :5 
 
 Ml 
 
 SOLD FOR THE PROPAGATION OF THB FAITH : 
 PRICE, $1.00. 
 
 Copyright 
 
 BY 
 
 CHRISTIAN PRESS ASSOCIATION 
 
 PUBLISHING CO. 
 
 1914 
 
 FEB 2419)5 
 
 ©CI,A397134 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Sound of Another Sea 7 
 
 The Diary of a Pilgrim 9 
 
 On the misty Atlantic 16-24 
 
 London and Paris 25-36 
 
 Paray le Monial 37-43 
 
 Geneva, Berne, Interlaken 48-53 
 
 Milan and Venice 54 
 
 Rome 55-58 
 
 Florence and Genoa 59-63 
 
 Lourdes 64-71 
 
 Jottings of a Trip in Scotland 72-95 
 
 Rome— A Christmas Reminiscence 96-104 
 
 The Roses of Assisi 105-107 
 
 From New York to Naples 108-130 
 
 From Naples to Cairo 131-140 
 
 Through Spain 141-154 
 
 Lourdes Revisited 155-160 
 
 A Few More Stray Leaves and Traces.... 161-170 
 
TO 
 
 MY FELLOW PILGRIMS. 
 
THE SOUND OF ANOTHER SEA 
 
 Breaks upon mine ear 
 
 The sound of another sea, 
 Linking far with near — 
 
 That far how near to me! 
 
 Echoes out of the past, 
 
 Wave-sounds from the shore, 
 
 Woven in dreams at last 
 Of days that are no more; 
 
 Days that ebbed away 
 
 By the side of another sea, 
 
 When Hfe was young and gay. 
 And all its ways were free. 
 — Victoria, B. C, January i, 1910. 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 Wednesday, June 2, 1900 
 
 E leave Montreal in a great downpour 
 of rain — a perfect deluge. In spite 
 of the rain, there are many gathered 
 on the pier to see us off. There is mutual wav- 
 ing of handkerchiefs, and exchange of fare- 
 wells. The rain descends in torrents, type and 
 token of God's manifold blessings, so at least 
 we pilgrims are fain to look upon it. x\s our 
 ship frees herself from her moorings, and 
 glides into the stream, one fond pilgrim is 
 overheard remarking that Montreal is weeping 
 over our departure. And such copious tears as 
 they are, too! 
 
 Last evening at eight, we all met at the Ca- 
 thedral, St. James's, to assist at Pontifical 
 Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament. The 
 great church, modelled on St. Peter's at Rome 
 — one-half of its length and one-eighth of its 
 9 
 
10 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 cubic contents — was thronged. The Arch- 
 bishop gave the Benediction, and afterwards 
 from his throne addressed the pilgrims in 
 French. He looked every inch of him a 
 Bishop, and spoke with great dignity and 
 sweetness, in a rich, clear voice. He seems 
 well fitted to rule the Church of God in Mary's 
 City — the great Catholic city of Montreal, 
 which, with its grand churches, its splendid 
 educational and charitable institutions, makes 
 the pilgrim prouder of his Faith and of his 
 country. 
 
 We reach Quebec at 7 p. m. Carriages — 
 cabs, caleches, and vehicles of all sorts — are in 
 readiness to convey the pilgrim party to the 
 Chapel of the Ursulines. Here for the first 
 time in Canada Mass was offered in honour of 
 the Sacred Heart. The Ursulines of Quebec 
 were founded by the Blessed Mary of the In- 
 carnation — the first religious foundation in 
 Canada. They are a cloistered Order. From 
 behind their gratings the nuns sing, in their 
 sweet voices, the Benediction Service, which is 
 preceded by a stirring address in French to the 
 pilgrims. At nine we are back on board. 
 There are ringing cheers from the shore, and 
 hearty cries of bon voyage. On the ship, many 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 11 
 
 of the pilgrims join in singing a French chan- 
 son, with its lively chorus, " Bon soir, mes 
 amis, bon soir ! " Scarcely has the last note 
 died away when the ship's bugler breaks out in 
 the familiar strains of Auld Lang Syne. We 
 slip our moorings, and are off. 
 
 Down the river we glide swiftly in the still- 
 ness of the night. On either bank is a fine 
 stretch of fertile land studded with picturesque 
 villages, and dotted with the houses of les 
 habitants. Now it lies as if asleep, wrapped 
 in the mantle of night. We see but in shadowy 
 outline the Laurentian hills, rising out of the 
 darkness. What a majestic river is this St. 
 Lawrence! There is nothing like it in Amer- 
 ica — in all the wide world. The scenery on 
 the Hudson is very picturesque in places, and 
 somewhat more varied, perhaps. But one 
 misses there the fine expanse of open country, 
 with its setting of mountains, and the river 
 itself lacks the breadth and grandeur of the St. 
 Lawrence. 
 
la THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 Pentecost Sunday, June 3. 
 
 Nine or ten pilgrims have joined us at Que- 
 bec. We are now ninety-two in all, including 
 twenty-three priests. There is also another 
 priest on board, who is not a pilgrim. It is the 
 feast of Pentecost, and all the priests say 
 Mass. There are Masses all the morning at 
 two altars — such altars as men hastily im- 
 provise on board ship — from 4.30 to 10. The 
 space between decks, forward of the saloon, 
 has been turned into a chapel. Around about 
 most of the pilgrims have their staterooms. 
 At the seven o'clock Mass, celebrated by 
 Father Pichon, S. J., director of the French 
 section of the pilgrimage, the Veni Creator 
 is sung with fine effect. Some of these French 
 Canadian priests and several of the lay pil- 
 grims, too, have splendid voices, trained in the 
 music of the Church. 
 
 In the afternoon we assemble in our chapel 
 to sing the vespers of the day. Several of the 
 lay pilgrims, men and women, lend their voices, 
 and the ship resounds with the strains of the 
 divine psalmody, the Veni Creator, and the 
 Magnificat. What fine voices these French 
 Canadians have, and how well they know the 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 13 
 
 chant of the Church! Even the lay pilgrims 
 sing the psalms and hymns in Latin, recite 
 with us the Litany of Loreto in Latin, and 
 seem to understand every word of what they 
 sing or say. 
 
 In the evening at eight there is service in 
 English. We sing two hymns: — Nearer My 
 God to Thee, and, Come Holy Ghost. Many 
 of the French priests and lay pilgrims join us 
 in singing. Father Kavanagh, S. J., director 
 of the English-speaking pilgrims, gives an in- 
 struction on the mission and work of the Holy 
 Ghost. This is followed by the Rosary in 
 English, and Night Prayers in French. Every 
 day we say the Rosary together, in French at 
 3.30 p. m., and in English at 8.30. Every day, 
 too, hymns are sung to our Blessed Lady, the 
 Ave Maris Stella and her own canticle of the 
 Magnificat being our favourites. 
 
 All day long we steam down the St. Law- 
 rence, hugging the southern bank. Early in 
 the afternoon, the mountains of St. Anne are 
 seen in the distance. They rise to a height of 
 from two to three thousand feet, back of the 
 hills that border on the river. Their summits 
 and shoulders are white with snow. It forms 
 a pleasing contrast to the blue of the river, and 
 
14 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 the green of the fields that lie at their feet. 
 By this time all trace of tears has been wiped 
 away from the face of the June sky, which 
 smiles benignantly upon us. It is glorious 
 weather. 
 
 Monday, June 4. 
 
 We have passed Gaspe, and are in the Gulf. 
 To the south, Bird Rock is dimly seen. Our 
 passenger list — already a long one — has re- 
 ceived an addition during the night. Two 
 birds, the smaller a sparrow, boarded the ship, 
 most likely before we were yet fairly away 
 from land. They are objects of much interest 
 to their fellow-passengers. The larger bird, 
 which the sailors take to be " a howl " (as one 
 of them expresses it), proves, on closer and 
 more careful scrutiny, to be a hawk. Jack- 
 tar is not an ornithologist. His acquaintance 
 with the feathery tribe seems to be confined to 
 a few aquatic birds, such as seagulls and 
 Mother Carey's chickens. As for land birds, it 
 is probable that he doesn't even " know a hawk 
 from a handsaw," much less from " a howl." 
 
 The presence of the birds on board gives 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 15 
 
 rise to not a little speculation. Why hath the 
 sparrow left its cosy nest and the hawk its home 
 on the dry land, to roam over this waste of 
 waters? Some say that the birds are stealing 
 a free passage to Newfoundland. Others, 
 sagely taking into account how ill-assorted the 
 pair are, reach a more likely solution of the 
 puzzling problem. The hawk, they say, sal- 
 lied forth in the early dawn to find itself a 
 breakfast. The sparrow was already abroad 
 on similar mission bent. Chased by the pirate 
 of the air, and having a natural dislike to be- 
 come food for its hungry pursuer, instead of 
 getting something to appease its own hunger, 
 it sought refuge on the passing ship, closely 
 followed by its foe. As we near the coast of 
 Newfoundland the birds leave us and fly land- 
 ward. But whether the smaller was inside 
 the larger bird, when land was reached, is still 
 matter for speculation to the other passengers 
 of the Vancouver. 
 
 By 10.30 a. m. we are abreast of Cape Ray. 
 As we steam by Channel, otherwise known as 
 Port Basque, we descry the massive hulk of 
 the Elder-Dempster liner, Montpellier, wrecked 
 here some weeks ago. Even the good ship 
 Vancouver might be cast away on these cruel 
 
16 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 rocks, as was her sister ship, the Chicago, on 
 the rocks of Kinsale. This is the thought that 
 comes to one's mind as one gazes on the 
 stranded ship. But the smiHng June sky, 
 radiant with sunshine, chases it quickly away, 
 and we breathe a prayer to the heart of Him 
 who rules the wind and the waves. 
 
 We are now fairly at sea, and our ship has 
 made her first bow to the Atlantic rollers. 
 This token of homage old Neptune claims, nay 
 compels, from every ship that presses upon his 
 bosom and feels the throbbing of his mighty 
 heart. And full many a one of those who go 
 down to the sea in ships, is, in like manner, 
 made to pay tribute, and never a one but 
 grudges the payment. But the theme is too 
 painful to dwell upon. 
 
 Tuesday, June 5. 
 
 A little before noon Cape Race is on our lar- 
 board quarter, and in an hour or two more we 
 catch our last glimpse of Terra Nova. The 
 weather is still fine, and the sea comparatively 
 smooth. At 9 p. m. a large number of the pas- 
 sengers gather in the saloon to hear a lecture 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 17 
 
 on the causes that led to the war in South 
 Africa. The lecture is by the Rev. Mr. Philips, 
 an Anglican minister, who has spent seven 
 years as missionary among the blacks and half- 
 breeds of the Transvaal. He arraigns the 
 Boer Government severely for its treatment of 
 the natives. The truth of what he says is 
 confirmed by Father Kavanagh, in seconding 
 the motion for a vote of thanks at the close of 
 the lecture. He remembers quite well when a 
 boy at Stonyhurst hearing the Jesuit Fathers, 
 returned from South Africa, recount what they 
 saw and heard of the oppression of subject 
 races by the Boers. " The tale they then told," 
 he says, "has been retold here to-night." 
 Precisely at ii o'clock the sound of the whistle 
 warns us that we have at last run into the in- 
 evitable fog. The dismal tooting is kept up 
 at intervals of one or two minutes during the 
 rest of the night. 
 
 3|C })C ^ 
 
 Wednesday, June 6. 
 
 A good deal of motion in the ship; fewer 
 passengers at the breakfast table. Still Masses 
 are celebrated from 5.30 to 8, and several of 
 
18 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 the priests and lay pilgrims receive Holy Com- 
 munion. In the afternoon, fogs again steal 
 upon us. They gather around our ship, these 
 mists of the mighty Atlantic, and envelop her 
 as with a shroud. They come and go at inter- 
 A^als during the afternoon, forcing us to slow 
 down and at times come to a standstill, so great 
 is the danger of collision with an iceberg or an 
 incoming ship. There is nothing for it but to 
 wait for the fog to lift with such patience as 
 one can command. We pace the deck, or 
 withdraw to our staterooms and there listen 
 idly to the murmur of the waves as they beat 
 against the ship, or brood on the mystery of 
 the sobbing sea. 
 
 Thursday, June 7. 
 
 From noon yesterday till noon to-day we 
 have covered 316 nautical miles, and are now 
 a little more than half way across from Que- 
 bec to Liverpool. The log reads at noon: 
 Day, 7; lat., 30.06 N. ; long., 38.36; distance 
 run, 316 miles. Remarks: Moderate winds, 
 choppy sea. The reader will please bear in 
 mind that this is from a ship's log, and that 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 19 
 
 the " remarks " are to be understood in a 
 strictly nautical sense. These " moderate " 
 winds of ours would pass on shore for some- 
 thing between a very stiff breeze and a moder- 
 ate gale. And as for "choppy " seas, the At- 
 lantic is not exactly a pOnd, though sometimes 
 irreverently described as such by the fellow 
 who has never crossed it, and this choppy sea 
 makes our big ship reel and tumble about like 
 a man slightly more than " half seas over." 
 There is a deal of sickness in consequence. 
 Some are unable to leave their beds. Others 
 manage to crawl on deck, but only to lie there 
 in chairs, silent and sullen, or mope about with 
 a most woe-begone appearance. Even your 
 genial rover of the seas, who has been across a 
 score of times and assures you that he is not 
 the least bit sick, is not half so gay and talk- 
 ative as he was yesterday and the day before. 
 You see there are degrees and stages of seasick- 
 ness, and one passes through a great variety of 
 less or more painful experiences before the last 
 stage is reached. Over that final act of the 
 nautical drama (which to the heartless onlooker 
 is too often comedy, but to the chief actor, or 
 rather sufferer, is in the last degree tragic) we 
 willingly let the curtain fall. Many drink sea- 
 
20 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 water, glass after glass of it, and believe that it 
 relieves them, or keeps them from falling sick, 
 as the case may be. I fancy I can hear some 
 one say as he reads this that the remedy is 
 worse than the disease. But I am quite sure 
 that the one who says so has never been seasick 
 — perhaps never been to sea — in his life. 
 
 Friday, June 8. 
 
 This morning, in spite of the rolling of the 
 ship, Masses were said and several of the pil- 
 grims received Holy Communion. There are 
 but few English pilgrims ; including cleric and 
 lay, not more than a dozen out of the ninety- 
 two. I say English rather than English-speak- 
 ing, and in contradistinction to French, as 
 many of the French pilgrims speak English 
 fluently. 
 
 There is little to break the monotony of a 
 sea voyage. One day is just like another. 
 You wake in the morning, rise, go through the 
 same little round, turn in at night. Each day 
 you seem to be just where you were the day 
 before. The same voices call out to you 
 " from the vasty deep." The same sea-waves 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 21 
 
 lift their crested heads, shake their flowing 
 manes, and sport and gambol in all the wild 
 abandon of their unbridled freedom. And 
 your vision is ever bounded by the same nar- 
 row horizon. Anything is welcome that breaks 
 this sameness, the passing ship, or even the sea- 
 gull that wings its way over the water. We 
 have met few ships. The smoke of a steamer 
 — of two of them, indeed, — was descried yes- 
 terday morning, and about sundown a big ship 
 under shortened sail was seen beating her way 
 to windward. 
 
 Saturday, June 9. 
 
 One pilgrim, who has been well enough up 
 till now, is so squeamish to-day that he dare 
 not write even half a dozen lines for fear of 
 consequences. This " leaf," therefore, is all 
 but blank. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Trinity Sunday, June 10. 
 
 The sea still runs " choppy." It has been 
 our worst night since we came on board — 
 ** rocked in the cradle of the deep," but with 
 
22 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 no gentle hand. The rocking continues this 
 morning, and Mass is said by Father Pichon 
 and one or two other priests under considerable 
 difficulties. In the afternoon vespers are sung 
 in the saloon, and in the evening, after the 
 Rosary, there is a sermon in English by the 
 Rev. Father Sloan, Pastor of Fallowfield, in 
 the diocese of Ottawa. This is a very distress- 
 ing day to many of the passengers. There is 
 longing for the repose of smooth waters, and 
 from four in the afternoon eager eyes are scan- 
 ning the distant horizon, in front of us, for a 
 sight of land. At six it is sighted — a vast rock 
 in the form of a cathedral, known as the " Skel- 
 ligs,*' and by ten we are steering straight for 
 the Fastnet Light which flashes its welcome 
 rays upon us at intervals of a few seconds. 
 The anger of ocean is fast subsiding, the stars 
 are out, and the Irish moon looks down upon 
 us from a cloudless sky. It is the feast of the 
 Most Holy Trinity, and to-night, as in all the 
 nights since His creative hand hung those orbs 
 in space, " The heavens proclaim His glory, 
 and the firmament of heaven shows forth the 
 
 work of His hands." 
 
 * * * 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 Monday, June i i . 
 
 I have spoken o^ Mass^^s said under diffi- 
 culties. There are difficulties and difficulties. 
 While I was serving Father Kavanagh's Mass 
 at 8 o'clock this morning, voices pitched in a 
 high key came from a stateroom hard by. 
 This is what the voices said — needless to say 
 the owners were neither pilgrims nor of the 
 household of the faith : 
 
 Male voice : " Open the porthole." 
 
 Female voice, from an adjoining stateroom, 
 shrill, as if in anger: "Do you command? 
 Are you *boss'?" (The bedroom steward 
 alone may open the porthole). 
 
 Male voice : " Mine is open." 
 
 Female voice (sarcastically) : " Don't fall 
 through." 
 
 We are now in St. George's Channel. On 
 our right, but not in view, is the coast of 
 Wales. On our left the coast of Ireland is 
 plainly visible. With a pair of glasses we can 
 see cottages, churches, and the green, green 
 fields of Erin. We shall be in Liverpool about 
 ten o'clock to-night. There I will mail this 
 batch of '' leaves " which have at least the merit 
 
24 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 of continuity. Others to follow will neces- 
 sarily be scattered and disconnected — stray 
 leaves blown about by every wind of travel. 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 25 
 
 Paris, Monday, June i8. 
 
 E reached Liverpool a week ago to- 
 day. It was about ten a. m. when 
 we entered the Mersey, having 
 been detained by fog for some time at the 
 mouth of the river. The famous docks of 
 the city, stretching for six miles on the 
 left bank of the Mersey, as you enter, were 
 lighted with electricity, presenting a brilliant 
 spectacle. At ten the next morning we were 
 on our way to London by the Great Western 
 R. R., which runs through some of the finest 
 parts of England. Rural England, at least 
 what we have seen of it, is highly cultivated 
 and very beautiful. The country traversed b) 
 the Great Western trains, from Liverpool to 
 London, is one vast park — great grassy plains 
 on either hand, with here a river, and there oc- 
 casionally a mountain, and everywhere rows 
 of trim hedges and the majestic oaks of Old 
 England. We pass through smoky Birming- 
 ham, and from the railway catch a glimpse of 
 the twin towers of Christ's Church, Oxford, 
 
26 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 both places fraught with reminders of the illus- 
 trious Cardinal Newman. 
 
 In London, we stay for the greater part of 
 three days. Our hotel is hard by Westminster 
 Abbey. We visit the famous abbey more than 
 once, and each time with mingled feelings of 
 admiration and sadness — admiration for the 
 noble temple itself, and sadness for the change 
 that has come over it, and the uses to which it 
 is put. The hour is half -past ten in the morn- 
 ing and the Canons of Westminster are chant- 
 ing their office. Decorous and sweet is the 
 music of their voices, but it grates upon the ear 
 as one thinks of those old monks of St. Bene- 
 dict, who so often here offered the Holy Sacri- 
 fice, and made the vast edifice resound with far 
 other and more solemn music in the centuries 
 long gone by. Here rest the sainted bones of 
 Edward the Confessor, in the magnificent 
 shrine prepared for them by the founder of the 
 abbey, Henry III, in the thirteenth century. 
 Yonder is the tomb of the ruthless Cromwell, 
 and a few steps beyond it, Charles Darwin, 
 naturalist and agnostic, lies in death. Over 
 against the monument of the martyred Mary 
 Queen of Scots, rises that of her royal cousin 
 and murderess, Elizabeth. The place is full of 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM n 
 
 these painful contrasts, though fragrant still 
 with memories of its glorious past — a past 
 which, however, bids fair to renew itself, at 
 least in a measure, for England and her peo- 
 ple. Is it not a token of this " second spring "' 
 that the Faith which built Westminster Abbey, 
 and which people once fondly thought \vas 
 dead and buried in England, past all hope of 
 resurrection, is now building an even more spa- 
 cious temple to the Most High, not many hun- 
 dred yards from the historic abbey, the new 
 Catholic cathedral of Westminster. 
 
 Back of what was once the high altar of the 
 old abbey is the Coronation Chair, with, be- 
 neath it, the historic Stone of Scone, on which 
 the Scottish Kings used to be crowned for long 
 ages before the days of Bruce. Now the mon- 
 archs of England sit in the chair on the day of 
 their coronation. Queen Victoria sat in it 
 twice, once when the diadem of the greatest 
 empire of the earth was placed on her girlish 
 brow — she was still in her teens — and a second 
 time, sixty years after, on the occasion of her 
 Diamond Jubilee. One other, more youthful, 
 but of low degree, sat in the royal chair 
 since — aye, and slept in it too, so our 
 guide tells us. A boy from the neighbouring 
 
38 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 schools was dared by his mates to spend a night 
 alone with the bones of the mighty dead, and 
 the ghosts of the Royal Chapel. He did so, 
 slept in the Coronation Chair, and boylike cut 
 his name and the record of his nocturnal ex- 
 ploit in the wood on which Royalty has been 
 enthroned since the days of the First Edward. 
 Many are the sights of London. But we 
 pilgrims are not sightseers, though of course 
 we do not travel with our eyes closed. Dur- 
 ing the two or three days that we were in Lon- 
 don, several places of historic interest were 
 visited, among others the famous Tower. As 
 for myself, I went not much about, having 
 spent in all six days in London on the two for- 
 mer occasions that I was in the city. I paid a 
 visit to an old classmate of mine in the Propa- 
 ganda, who is now Canon Gildea, rector of 
 St. James's, in Spanish Place. From him I 
 learned that there are altogether about one 
 hundred Catholic churches in London, most of 
 them somewhat small of size, and that they are 
 so situated that the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass 
 is offered up every Sunday within ten minutes' 
 walk of any Catholic home in the vast city. On 
 the Feast of Corpus Christi I assisted at the 
 Solemn Hig^h Mass and Procession of the 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 29 
 
 Blessed Sacrament in the Brompton Oratory. 
 The church of the Oratory is easily the finest 
 Catholic church in London. It is modelled on 
 the great church of St. Philip, in Rome, and 
 is distinctly Roman in every detail. Here New- 
 man preached those thrilling sermons which 
 drew Thackeray away from his novel writing 
 and Macaulay from some favourite haunt in 
 the literary circles of the city. The echoes of 
 that wondrous voice seem still to linger in the 
 place. Newman's figure in white marble, 
 larger than life, fronting the street that runs by 
 the Oratory, arrests the steps of many a passer- 
 by. 
 
 Between England and France, the distance is 
 not great, if you reckon it in miles, but it is 
 leagues and leagues if you measure it by dif- 
 ferences of race and national characteristics. 
 The English Channel, with its swift tide and 
 fretful sea, severs two entirely different peo- 
 ples. We cross from Folkestone to Boulogne- 
 sur-Mer. Boulogne is a quaint old-world 
 town, and a favourite resort of tourists. We 
 make but a short stay, and push on to Paris. 
 Our way lies through an undulating country, 
 well-wooded and well-watered, with here and 
 there a great stretch of pasture-land, where 
 
30 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 flocks of sheep are grazing and shepherds with 
 their dogs are keeping watch. This part of 
 France does not appear to be as highly culti- 
 vated as are the parts of -England that we 
 have seen; but the scenery is more diversified. 
 By ten o'clock at night the electric light on the 
 summit of the Eiffel Tower is visible afar, 
 and we know that we are nearing Paris. 
 
 We arrived in Paris last Friday night. We 
 leave it next Wednesday morning. What shall 
 I say of the City on the Seine, the gay and bril- 
 liant capital of France? I will say frankly that 
 I don't like it — that I would rather live in Lon- 
 don with its dullness and fog, than live in Paris 
 with its gaiety and sunshine. Why? Well, 
 perhaps because I am dull myself, at least in 
 the sense of not being gay — certainly not be- 
 cause I love the fog, for I do dearly love the 
 blue sky and the light of the blessed sun. Per- 
 haps, again, it is because I don't understand the 
 French tongue or French ways as I understand 
 the English tongue and English ways. But 
 most of all, I think, what I dislike about Paris 
 is its godlessness. The evidences of it are on 
 every hand. The Londoner has at least the 
 good sense to hide his irreligion, if he is irre- 
 ligious. At any rate, he does not wear the 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 31 
 
 badge of his irreligion in the streets. The 
 Parisian, who is irreligious, parades his irre- 
 h'gion and seems to glory in his shame. I have 
 seen less of London than of Paris — too little 
 of either, indeed, to enable me to form a just 
 idea of their condition. But certainly the lat- 
 ter city seems to be the more godless of the 
 two. 
 
 Religion there is in Paris, and piety, too, 
 much more of it, I have no doubt at all, than 
 there is in the city on the Thames. But it hides 
 itself in church and home; the stranger in the 
 streets sees little of it. Take the matter of Sun- 
 day observance. Public opinion and the law in 
 London make people respect, at least out- 
 wardly, the Lord's Day; public opinion and the 
 law in Paris make people do the very opposite, 
 at least as far as the force of custom and ex- 
 ample and the spur of business rivalry can 
 bring this effect about. Last Sunday in Paris 
 almost all the shops were open, and people went 
 about their work as on an ordinary week day. 
 Paris does not keep the Sunday, though many 
 Parisians doubtless do. Is there no warrant 
 for the inference that Paris has ceased to be 
 Christian ? 
 
 This is a land of contrasts, and Paris is em- 
 
32 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 phatically a city of contrasts. Piety and god- 
 lessness, virtue and vice, are here more sharply 
 contrasted than in any other city on earth. "If 
 the devil reigns in Paris, God is, perhaps, better 
 served there than anywhere else; good and 
 evil alike find their supreme expression; 'tis 
 Babylon and Jerusalem both." 
 
 In the grand churches dwells the deepest 
 piety ; godlessness is rampant without. We are 
 in Notre Dame Sunday, during the Procession 
 of the Blessed Sacrament. What a splendid 
 spectacle ! The music how heavenly ! Boys 
 with angel voices make the stately edifice ring 
 with the grand old chant of the Church. 
 Troops of boys and girls, the boys with lighted 
 torches in their hands, the girls clothed in spot- 
 less white and bearing great bunches of roses 
 which shed their fragrance far, march in the 
 long procession. At the end, the Eucharistic 
 Lord, from His throne over the high altar, 
 blesses the assembled multitude. It is all so 
 solemn and so soulstirring. We pass out from 
 the church, deeply moved. The street is almost 
 blocked with worldly traffic, and men — two 
 soldiers and two civilians — are playing cards 
 under the very shadow of Notre Dame. 
 
 Sunday morning, the pilgrims went in a body 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 33 
 
 to Montmartre — the priests to say Mass, the 
 lay pilgrims to hear Mass and receive Holy 
 Communion. The basilica which the piety of 
 Catholic France has erected to the Sacred 
 Heart on Montmartre is truly a splendid struc- 
 ture. Built on a lofty eminence, it dominates 
 the city which seems to lie quite at one's feet. 
 Five thousand boys from the seminaries of 
 France received Holy Communion at Mont- 
 martre that morning. As one watched tier 
 after tier of them at the high altar eat of the 
 Bread of Life, with every mark of piety and 
 devotion, one felt that there was hope for the 
 future of the Church in France. And yet at 
 least to human seeming, how gloomy is the 
 outlook! One of the lay pilgrims, a very de- 
 vout French-Canadian, told me after we left 
 Montmartre that morning of a talk he had with 
 a Parisian matron the day before. She had 
 two children — the regulation number, for in 
 France, as statistics show, the deaths all but ex- 
 ceed the births. She sent them to Mass, she 
 said, though she did not go herself, remarking 
 that no harm would come of their going. She 
 sent them to the godless State school, because 
 they would not get on so well in the world, 
 she thought, if they went to the Christian 
 
34 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 Brothers' school. There is reason to fear that 
 many of the mothers of France are to-day like 
 this Parisian dame — solicitous about the things 
 of this world, and neither knowing nor caring 
 for the things that are above. 
 
 At dinner, in the restaurant at Boulogne on 
 Friday, only meat was served. We asked for 
 fish, but could get none. At lunch, in our own 
 hotel here at Paris the same evening, again no 
 fish. True, the railway restaurant at Boulogne 
 and the hotel at Paris cater to the travelling 
 public. But do not the French themselves 
 travel? And if, in travelling, they eat fish on 
 Friday, will not fish be forthcoming when 
 asked for? I have said that Paris does not 
 keep the Sunday — at least the Sunday rest; I 
 fear that France does not keep Friday, or keeps 
 it but very indifferently. I speak as one less 
 wise and under correction. But putting this 
 and that together, I cannot but conclude that 
 there is a dreadful decay of faith in France. It 
 does not seem possible that the France of the 
 Catholic Missions, the France of our Lady of 
 Lourdes, will be lost to the Church. But if she 
 is to be saved to God and Church, it will be so 
 as by fire. Another chastisement, cutting 
 deeper into the nation's life than that of 1870, 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 35 
 
 must first bring to her knees, and to the very 
 dust in penance, the Eldest Daughter of the 
 Church. 
 
 I am at the end of my chapter, and not a 
 word about the Exposition. I have visited 
 the grounds but once, and then viewed them 
 from the Eiffel Tower, midway to the top. 
 The buildings, which stand on both banks of 
 the Seine, are certainly very grand. They 
 seem to be more spacious, upon the whole, 
 than were those of the Chicago Exposition. 
 But they do not stand by themselves and 
 apart, as was the case in Chicago ; you do not 
 get one impression of them, so to say; nor is 
 the sight so beautiful as was that of the White 
 City on the shores of Lake Michigan. The 
 view to be had from the Eerris Wheel at 
 Chicago was, I think, finer than that which 
 you get to-day from the Eiffel Tower at 
 Paris. I am speaking only of what is to be 
 seen of the Exposition from without. But 
 what of the Paris Eair from within? That 
 you must learn, if at all, from some one else. 
 I paid but a flying visit to one of the build- 
 ings, and saw a variety of things of which 
 I have now but a very confused notion. I 
 have no faculty for seeing things, as your en- 
 
36 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 thusiastic sightseer has, and can find no sort of 
 pleasure in the process. To me it is all a 
 weariness of spirit — and a weariness of the 
 flesh into the bargain. Non satiatur oculus 
 videndo, says the Wise Man — the eye is not 
 sated with seeing. To which one may add, 
 in view of the special circumstances of the 
 case, sed f atigatur corpus ambulando — ^but the 
 body is fatigued with walking. 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM SI 
 
 Geneva, Sunday, June 24, 1900. 
 
 E left Paris last Wednesday morning, 
 and arrived at Paray le Monial a 
 little before six in the afternoon. 
 All day we traversed a land of great fertility, 
 rich in grain fields, for the most part open 
 and level, in places picturesque. The sea- 
 son here is at least six weeks earlier than at 
 home. Already the grain is ripe or fast 
 ripening in the fields, and the people are busily 
 at work making their hay and gathering in 
 the harvest. 
 
 Paray le Monial is situated on the banks of 
 a small stream, in the Department of Loire-et- 
 Saone, in the very heart of France. It is a 
 town of not more than 4,000 inhabitants, 
 quiet with the quietude of all country places, 
 quaint with the quaintness of almost all of 
 the old-world towns. No smoke of factories 
 darkens its sky, no sound of worldly traffic is 
 heard in its streets. You hear instead the 
 song of birds in the morning, the pealing of 
 bells, and all day long the pilgrim's hymn. A 
 
38 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 deep peace, a sweet and restful tranquility, 
 broods on the place which the Prince of Peace, 
 the Lord of the Sacred Heart, has chosen for 
 His sanctuary. 
 
 The Chapel of the Sacred Heart, attached 
 to the Convent of the Visitation, must seem 
 commonplace enough to the ordinary traveller. 
 It is small of size, and, as seen from without, 
 very plain, very unpretentious. Within is a 
 wealth of votive offerings from every land. 
 Consecrated banners, wrought in silk and gold 
 and richly embroidered, are ranged around 
 the walls, and the light of many lamps falls 
 upon the high altar where Our Blessed Lord 
 revealed His heart to the lowly Visitandine, 
 and whence He still dispenses His grace. 
 
 All day Thursday and far into the night 
 pilgrims keep pouring in from all parts. All 
 night long the Chapel is open, and the stream 
 of incoming and outgoing pilgrims is as the 
 flow and ebb of a mighty sea. At two in the 
 morning of Friday, Feast of the Sacred Fleart, 
 the Masses begin. They continue at all of the 
 eight altars until ten, at most of them until 
 twelve, yet not one-third of the priests in 
 Paray le Monial with the great International 
 Pilgrimage can say Mass this day in the 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 39 
 
 sanctuary of the Sacred Heart. They must 
 needs go elsewhere, to the basilica, to other 
 churches or chapels. 
 
 At ten o'clock Solemn High Mass is cele- 
 brated in the basilica, the Vicar-General of 
 Paris being the celebrant. The Bishop of 
 Autun, Cardinal Perraud, occupies the throne 
 on the gospel side, for Paray le Monial is in 
 his jurisdiction. In the sanctuary are several 
 prelates and dignitaries, among others Arch- 
 bishop Corrigan of New York, and as many 
 priests as can find standing room. The church 
 is literally packed with pilgrims, yet many 
 thousands have been unable to gain entrance. 
 In the nave, directly in front of the main altar, 
 are ranged the banners of the various pilgrim- 
 ages, some thirty or forty in all — I cannot give 
 the exact number. Hither they have been 
 borne by pilgrim bands from all quarters of 
 the globe, from many countries of Europe, 
 from Asia, from Africa, from America, North 
 and South, and from the islands of the far 
 Pacific Ocean. Conspicuous among them is 
 our own Canadian banner, with its almost life- 
 size image of Our Lord revealing His Sacred 
 Heart in the centre, and ranged along the bor- 
 ders the heroic founders of the Church in 
 
40 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 Canada, Laval, Champlain, Maisonneuve, Bre- 
 boeuf, Mary of the Incarnation, Marguerite 
 Bourgeois, and the foundress of the Ursulines 
 of Quebec. A little beyond is unfurled an- 
 other American banner, which proudly claims 
 a place here to-day by a right peculiarly its 
 own. It is the banner of Catholic Ecuador, 
 the Republic of the Sacred Heart. Inscribed 
 on it, in letters of gold, which first were 
 written in blood, are the words of the martyred 
 President, Garcia Moreno, as he fell by the 
 hand of the assassin, Iddios ne meure — God 
 dies not. At the Credo all are on their feet, 
 and the priests in the sanctuary and in all parts 
 of the basilica pilgrim voices from many lands 
 sing in unison the time-honoured Confession 
 of the Faith " once delivered to the saints " — 
 in the chant of the Church and in the language 
 of the Church, the Creed of the Church 
 Catholic and Apostolic. It is a most impres- 
 sive and most solemn scene, one never to be 
 forgotten. 
 
 Thursday night the pilgrims made the Way 
 of the Cross by torchlight in the great garden 
 adjoining the basilica. The garden itself w^as 
 brilliant with lights, and at each station the 
 arch-priest attached to the basilica delivered a 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 41 
 
 discourse in French, of some five or ten 
 minutes. In the intervals between stations the 
 vast multitude joined in singing the hymn of 
 Catholic France, with its pleading refrain, 
 Sauvez, Sauvez la France. On the afternoon 
 of Friday the basilica was again packed to 
 hear the sermon of Father Couper, one of the 
 first preachers of France, and to assist at the 
 International Act of Consecration to the Sa- 
 cred Heart. It was indeed a red-letter day 
 in the City of the Sacred Heart. From earliest 
 dawn the streets were lined with pilgrims in 
 picturesque costumes and gay with banners, 
 the Papal colours and the banner of the Sacred 
 Heart ever holding the place of honour. As 
 the sun went down and darkness fell upon the 
 scene, the celebration was brought to a close 
 by a great torchlight procession through the 
 streets. 
 
 That night, in the hotel of the Sacred Heart 
 hard by the Chapel of the Visitation, the Cana- 
 dian pilgrims were introduced to General 
 Charette, sometime leader of the Pontifical 
 Zouaves, and Admiral Cuverville, of the 
 French Navy. Both made short speeches 
 brimful of Gallic fire, and of loyalty to the 
 Sacred Heart and to Holy Mother Church. O 
 
42 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 that France had many such high-souled, God- 
 fearing men among her leaders and coun- 
 cillors ! 
 
 There were many pilgrimages at Paray le 
 Monial, and many people represented there. 
 But it is quite safe to say that the pilgrimage 
 which represented the Catholics of Canada cut 
 the greatest figure and claimed the greatest 
 share of attention. This it owed not to its 
 numbers; numerically it was one of the small- 
 est. Nor was it the rank or dignity of its mem- 
 bers that won it a foremost place : it was made 
 up of plain priests and humble lay people, 
 many of them from the remote rural districts 
 of the Province of Quebec. But the Catholics 
 of France saw in the vast majority of the pil- 
 grim band that gathered round the Canadian 
 banner the descendants of the men and wo- 
 men who went forth from France three cen- 
 turies ago to found a new France on the banks 
 of the St. Lawrence. And as they heard them 
 sing their hymns in French to airs that have 
 been familiar to generations of pious French- 
 men, and saw how they still hold fast, with 
 unswerving fidelity, the Faith of their Fathers, 
 the Faith of Old France, their hearts went out 
 to them as they went out to the members of no 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 43 
 
 other pilgrimage there. Most of all was this 
 made manifest yesterday morning as we 
 gathered in the sanctuary at Paray le Monial 
 to sing for the last time before leaving the 
 hymn of the Canadian pilgrims. Mr. Rivet, 
 organizer of the pilgrimage, who has a rich, 
 strong and most musical voice, sang the solos, 
 and all joined in the chorus. The emotion of 
 many present found vent in tears, and copies 
 of the hymn were afterwards eagerly sought 
 for. This particular hymn, one of two, was 
 composed while we were in London, by a 
 French Canadian Sister who has entered a 
 convent there. I subjoin a copy of it, with an 
 English translation, which one who looks at it 
 without reading might mistake for verse, but 
 which is really only a rude rendering into 
 English, line for line and almost word for 
 word, of the original : 
 
 Cantique des Pelerins Canadiens 
 a Paray le Monial. 
 
44 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 (AIR: PITIE, MON DIEU.) 
 
 I. 
 
 Des bords lolntains de la Nouvelle France, 
 Du Canada, Maitre, nous accourons; 
 O Roi des rois, a Vous notre allegeance. 
 A votre Coeur, nous nous consacrons. 
 
 Coeur adorable, 
 
 Foyer d'amour, 
 
 Le pays de I'erable 
 
 Est a Vous sans retour. 
 
 11. 
 
 Peuples, debout ! le Maitre nous appelle, 
 Rallions-nous autour du Sacre-Coeur; 
 II f aut au monds une seve nouvelle : 
 Allons tous boire aux sources du Sauveur. 
 
 Coeur adorable, 
 
 Nous voici tous, 
 
 Nous venons, Coeur aimable, 
 
 Chercher la vie en vous. 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 45 
 
 III. 
 
 Nos maux sont grands, nous sommes bien 
 
 coupables, 
 Mais Vous, mon Dieu, vous etes toujours 
 
 bon; 
 Vous avez fait les peuples guerissables, 
 II leur suffit de Vous crier: Pardon! 
 
 Coeur adorable, 
 
 Qui nous aimez, 
 
 A la terre coupable, 
 
 Coeur divin, pardonnez. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Coeur de Jesus, que tous les coeurs soient 
 
 votres, 
 Au cher pays, en la France, en tous lieux! 
 Par votre amour, unis les uns aux autres, 
 Nous serons forts et nous serons heureux. 
 
 Nous voulons etre 
 
 A Vous, Jesus ; 
 Prenez nos coeurs, bon Maitre, 
 Et ne les rendez plus. 
 
 V. 
 
 Daignez benir notre chere Patrie, 
 
 Tous nos foyers, nos Pretres, nos Pasteurs; 
 
46 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 Et que tou jours, de Jesus, de Marie, 
 Les Canadiens soient loyaux serviteurs! 
 
 Coeur adorable, 
 
 Gardez tou jours 
 Au pays de I'erable 
 La foi des anciens jours. 
 
 Hymn of the French-Canadian 
 Pilgrims at Paray le Monial. 
 
 From the shores of far New France, 
 
 From Canada, Lord, we come; 
 
 O King of Kings, we swear fealty to Thee, 
 
 And to Thy Sacred Heart we consecrate our- 
 selves. 
 
 Adorable Heart, 
 Fountain of Love, 
 The Land of the Maple 
 Is Thine forevermore. 
 
 IL 
 
 Hark, ye peoples ! the Master calls us, 
 Let us rallly round His Sacred Heart. 
 The world needs the sap of a new life; 
 Let us all go and drink at the fountains of the 
 Saviour. 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 47 
 
 Adorable Heart, 
 Behold us all here, 
 We come, O loving Heart, 
 To find life in Thee. 
 
 III. 
 
 Great are our sins, our souls are stained with 
 
 guilt. 
 But Thou, my God, Thou art ever merciful. 
 In Thee is healing for the Nations; 
 Enough that they cry out : Forgive ! 
 
 Adorable Heart 
 
 That lovest us ; 
 
 Pardon, Heart Divine, 
 
 The guilt-stained world. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Heart of Jesus, may all hearts be Thine, 
 
 In our own dear country, in France, in every 
 
 land! 
 Bound together by the bonds of Thy love, 
 We shall find strength and happiness. 
 
 Thine, O Jesus, 
 
 We would be; 
 
 Take our hearts, dear Lord, 
 
 And make them Thine for ever. 
 
48 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 Deign to bless our dear Country, 
 Our Homes, our Priests, our Bishops; 
 And may Canadians ever be 
 Faithful Servants of Jesus and Mary! 
 
 Adorable Heart, 
 
 Always conserve 
 
 To the Land of the Maple 
 
 The Faith of our Fathers! 
 * * * 
 
 We reached Geneva last night and are leav- 
 ing to-morrow morning for Berne. Geneva 
 is a beautiful city, situated at the head of the 
 lake of the same name. The atmosphere is 
 wonderfully clear here to-day and the sun 
 shines out of a cloudless sky. Afar off — 
 though it seems not far, it must be some score 
 of miles away — the snowy summit of Mont 
 Blanc is distinctly visible. All around are 
 Alpine peaks. The city is full of historic in- 
 terest. Here Calvin preached his gloomy 
 creed and ruled with an iron rod. Here, too, 
 the very opposite of Calvin i:i every way, that 
 sweetest and most lovable of Saints, Francis 
 of Sales, wielded episcopal authority over a 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 49 
 
 devoted flock. His spirit seems to breathe in 
 the peace and calm of this June day. One 
 can even fancy that one hears the accents of 
 his gentle voice calling his sheep away from 
 earthly pastures to heavenly ones, guiding 
 them ever onward to the Great Shepherd of 
 the sheep, in the fold upon the everlasting 
 hills. 
 
50 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 Lucerne, Wednesday, June 27. 
 
 ^l^gjHE parts of Switzerland that are ca- 
 1^^^ pable of cultivation seem to be even 
 more fertile than the parts of France 
 that we have passed through. Both the hay 
 and grain crops are heavier, at least this year, 
 and the vine thrives marvellously on the hill- 
 sides of this beautiful and romantic land. For 
 beautiful it is and romantic, this land of bright- 
 blue skies, and snow-capped mountains, and 
 leaping cataracts, and sylvan glades, and smil- 
 ing valleys. 
 
 We spent Sunday at Geneva, and stayed two 
 or three hours at Berne Monday on our way 
 to Interlaken. Berne is the national capital. 
 Its most notable buildings are the Federal 
 House of Parliament and the Lutheran Ca- 
 thedral. The latter dates from the beginning 
 of the 15th century, and to this day bears about 
 it tokens of the Faith that first set it up. 
 Berne is the German word for " bear." The 
 city takes its name " de bellua caesa," as an 
 old monument bears witness, from a bear hav- 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 51 
 
 ing been slain on the site where it stands. 
 Thence the bear is the emblem and heraldic 
 decoration of the Swiss capital. You can't 
 turn in any direction without running across 
 the figure of a bear. The poor beast is drawn 
 in every conceivable shape and tortured into 
 every conceivable attitude. One is reminded 
 of the fable of the Lion and the Man, as told 
 by Newman. There are bears couchant, bears 
 passant, and bears regardant. There are old 
 bears and young bears, big bears and little 
 bears, bears climbing trees, bears standing on 
 their hind legs, bears hugging each other, and 
 bears making faces at each other. And to 
 crown all, the city maintains four huge live 
 bears and several young ones in an enclosure 
 about twelve feet below the level of the ground. 
 They are shown to every visitor who crosses 
 the stone bridge that spans the Aar river, on 
 the banks of which Berne stands. 
 
 Interlaken, as the name implies, is situated 
 between two lakes. It is an ideal summer re- 
 sort, a very paradise of tourists. It is hemmed 
 in by mountains on every side. On the east, 
 Jungfrau lifts her snowy summit to the skies. 
 Jungfrau (pronounced yungfrau) is German 
 for virgin. And a tall virgin she is, this 
 
62 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 Maiden of the Snows, ever holding her head 
 erect some 13,000 feet above the level of the 
 sea. She always wears her white mantle, and 
 for apron a great glacier. On the evening of 
 our arrival she had on a cap of cloud, and 
 some time during the night further shrouded 
 herself in a veil of mist. Nor would she lift it 
 as we went away, eager though we were to 
 catch a glimpse of her morning face. 
 
 Between Interlaken and Lucerne the scenery 
 is uninterruptedly grand. Mountain, lake, and 
 Alpine river quickly succeed one another, but 
 without sameness. The most remarkable feat- 
 ure of this route is the over-mountain railway. 
 The train climbs an Alpine hill from 1,200 to 
 1,500 feet in height, and makes its way 
 down on the other side. Our train was 
 divided into three sections, each section of 
 which was pulled by a powerful locomotive. 
 The wheels revolve on cogs set in the rails. 
 At one time the train is on the very edge of a 
 precipice, with a sheer descent of several hun- 
 dred feet; at another, an overhanging cliff 
 threatens to fall down on top of it and smash 
 it into atoms. Now it seems to be on the verge 
 of dropping into a lake hundreds of feet be- 
 low ; the next moment the dense Alpine forests 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 53 
 
 hides even the heavens from one's view. It is 
 a thrilling experience, and one feels a sense of 
 relief once it is fairly over. 
 * * * 
 
64 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 Rome, July 6th, 1900. 
 
 MT is more than a week since last I put 
 pen to paper. We were then at Lucerne, 
 amid the eternal hills. We are now in 
 the Eternal City. Into this short space much 
 has been crowded — too much even to touch on 
 here or give in barest outline. There is the 
 sublime scenery of the Alpine Passes between 
 Lucerne and Como, with the passage through 
 the great tunnel at St. Gothard's. There is 
 Milan with its marvellous Duomo, *' a dream 
 in marble," as some prose poet has pictured it. 
 There is the vast plain of Lombardy, stretching 
 for miles and miles from the foot of the Alps 
 to the Mediterranean, the garden of Italy, as 
 Italy is the garden of Europe. Then there is 
 Venice, Queen of the Adriatic, the city of doges 
 and of gondolas. The doges are dead; we 
 visited the church where monuments in marble 
 and in bronze enshrine their ashes and perpetu- 
 ate all that now remains of their former great- 
 ness — a fugitive and fitful memory. The gon- 
 dolas are still there, with their graceful, swan- 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 55 
 
 like shape and movement — just such as they 
 were in the days when the RepubHc of Venice 
 was mistress of the seas. There, again, is 
 Padua, with its shrine of St. Anthony, whose 
 incorrupt tongue still witnesses to the power 
 with which this '' trumpet of the Gospel " her- 
 alded Christ and Him crucified. There, too, is 
 Loreto, with its Holy House, where the Word 
 was made Flesh — a most gracious shrine. 
 Lastly, as we hasten Romeward, midway be- 
 tween Ancona and Rome, amid the Umbrian 
 hills, yet another shrine draws us to itself — 
 Assisi, where live the memories of St. Francis 
 and the spirit of St. Francis — live, too, as 
 fresh and fragrant as are the blood-bedewed 
 roses that bloom on thornless bushes in his 
 garden, where he fought the good fight against 
 temptation and won for the men of all time the 
 Pardon of the Portiuncula. 
 
 Those of us who spent Wednesday in Assisi 
 did not reach Rome until a late hour that night. 
 Imagine our surprise and almost consternation 
 when we were told that all the pilgrims were to 
 be received in audience by the Holy Father 
 at eleven the next (yesterday) morning. We 
 had counted on being at least a day or two in 
 Rome before the audience took place, and we 
 
56 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 were not ready. We ran about for two or 
 three hours in the morning, buying medals, 
 etc., to be blessed — I with no little difficulty, 
 getting English gold for the cheques containing 
 the Peter Pence offering of our diocese, some 
 two thousand one hundred and fifty francs. 
 By eleven o'clock we are at the Vatican, and 
 half an hour afterwards Pope Leo enters 
 the Sala Clementina, borne on a chair, amid 
 the ' evivas ' of the assembled pilgrims. There 
 are two pilgrimages, the Brazilian, ranged 
 along one side of the great hall, and the Ca- 
 nadian along the other. First the Pope re- 
 ceives the Brazilians, then the Canadians. He 
 is carried in his chair right around the hall, in 
 front of the pilgrims who line the sides. To 
 each he gives his hand to kiss; to each his 
 blessing and some gracious token of tender- 
 ness — a word, a smile; to all, at the close, the 
 Apostolic Benediction. Pope Leo is of course 
 changed since I saw him last, sixteen years 
 ago; the white hair is scantier and whiter still, 
 the lines on the face are deeper, the hands 
 are more tremulous, the voice has lost its res- 
 onance. But the light of the coal black eye 
 is not dimmed, there is more of pathos in the 
 voice, and the whole face has melted into ten- 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 5T 
 
 derness. There has come into it a gentler and 
 more winning look, which one likens to the 
 mellowness of ripe fruit when it is ready to 
 drop from the tree. This fruit is surely meet 
 to be gathered, one says to oneself, yet none 
 but the Master's hand may pluck it from the 
 stem. 
 
 The scene in the Sala Clementina, at the 
 close of the audience, as the aged Pontiff 
 blessed the pilgrims, I will not attempt to de- 
 scribe. I shall never forget it, and no one who 
 was there ever can forget it. When the Pope 
 raised himself on his chair and stretched out 
 his hand to give the Apostolic Benediction, 
 there was a stillness as of death throughout the 
 vast hall — a stillness soon broken by sobs, for 
 tears filled the eyes of all that were there, and 
 many wept aloud. The first words were spoken 
 in distinct though somewhat low tones, but as 
 the last words, in nomine Patris et Filii et 
 Spiritus Sancti, were being uttered the Holy 
 Father himself broke down completely. The 
 voice grew husky with emotion, the eyes 
 closed, and great tears rolled down the aged 
 cheeks. Leo XIII felt that he was blessing 
 for the last time these faithful children of his 
 from the two Americas, and we felt that never 
 
58 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 in this life should we look upon his face again. 
 I must close abruptly, without as much as 
 one word about Rome itself — Rome to which 
 I have come, not merely as a pilgrim from 
 afar to a holy place of pilgrimage, but as a son 
 comes to his mother after long years of separa- 
 tion. For Rome is to me the mother of my 
 soul. 
 
 ♦ ♦ 4t 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 59 
 
 Genoa, Friday, July 13. 
 
 E left Rome Tuesday at 2 p. m., after 
 a stay of six days, which was all too 
 short. For one could spend months 
 and months in Rome and still not see a tithe of 
 what is worth seeing, or even begin to be weary 
 of a place so rich in all that sages have thought 
 and poets have dreamed of and artists have 
 wrought and martyrs have bled for and saints 
 have loved. We leave Rome with regret; feel- 
 ing as all must feel in whom tliere is a spark of 
 Divine Faith, that it is the City of the Soul, to 
 which, in the words of the poet, " the exile of 
 the heart " must forever turn. 
 
 The run from Rome to Florence is made In 
 five or six hours. Florence, the city of flowers, 
 is built on both banks of the Arno. It is a 
 beautiful city much frequented by tour- 
 ists. It is the birthplace of many of Italy's 
 greatest sons, of Dante, of Michael Angelo, of 
 Galileo. Here Savonarola lived and preached 
 and wielded an influence more potent than that 
 of any civil ruler. We saw, in one of the pal- 
 
60 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 aces of the Medici, the chapel where he spoke 
 his last words to his brother monks, just be- 
 fore he was led out to be burnt at the stake in 
 the Piazza of the Signoria, hard by. Here, 
 too, first saw the light of day one who was 
 the opposite of Savonarola in many ways, the 
 sweet and gentle Philip Neri. Rome, the city 
 of his adoption, of which he became the second 
 Apostle, is still filled with the fragrance of his 
 saintly life. 
 
 From Florence we come by rail to Pisa, 
 and thence the same day to Genoa. From 
 Spezia to the latter city, the railway, skirting 
 the shores of the Mediterranean, is one series 
 of tunnels. In the intervals between tunnels 
 we catch glimpses of as beautiful and pictur- 
 esque scenery as one could wish to gaze upon — 
 a background of hills, rising in many places ab- 
 ruptly to a great height, sloping vineyards, 
 groves of olive, clusters of fruit trees, and, in 
 front, the waters of the Mediterranean, clear as 
 crystal and mirroring in their depths the fleecy 
 summer clouds that float in the blue above. 
 Over all, like a great dome over Nature's own 
 Cathedral, is the sky of Italy. 
 
 " Genoa la Superba " — Genoa the Superb 
 — the Genoese call this city by the rippling 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 61 
 
 Mediterranean, and well they may. It is, in- 
 deed, superb. In its marble palaces could be 
 entertained to-day, in princely fashion, all the 
 princes of the earth. It is the richest city of 
 the peninsula, the great mart of the Mediter- 
 ranean, the Liverpool of Italy. From the har- 
 bour, where float the flags of all nations, the 
 city resembles a vast amphitheatre, tier upon 
 tier of tall buildings rising one above another. 
 Even the urchins in the street are proud of this 
 queenly city. In the higher part of the town, 
 away up among the hills, near the marvellous 
 Campo Santo, a group of them stood talking 
 rapidly, and to me unintelligibly, in their own 
 Genoese dialect, as we passed by. '' Che lin- 
 guaggio parlate voi altri? " I asked somewhat 
 bluntly. " Noi," says one of the number, with 
 a sweep of the hand which took in the other 
 members of the group, and then pointing 
 proudly with his finger to his breast, " Noi 
 siamo Genovesi — We are natives of Genoa." 
 
 That Campo Santo, by the same token, is one 
 of the wonders of the world. Truly the dead 
 of Genoa dwell in marble halls, and this city 
 of the dead is a miracle in marble. Every 
 monument is a work of art. The pose of that 
 figure, how graceful and natural! Those faces 
 
62 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 in marble and bronze, how life-like are they! 
 The dead seem to live in them again, and to 
 look down at you with their solemn eyes from 
 the other world. 
 
 We loved that hall, tho' white and cold 
 Those niched shapes of noble mould 
 
 A princely people's awful princes, 
 The grave, severe Genoese of old. 
 
 — Tennyson, '' The Daisy." 
 
 Quieti et Memoriae — you meet it every- 
 where, this terse and beautiful epigraph. Re- 
 calling the memory of some dear departed one, 
 it breathes a prayer for that rest after which 
 the human heart ever hungers here below — 
 that rest which we look for " where beyond 
 these voices there is peace." 
 
 For full nine hundred years, from 900 to 
 1,800, Genoa maintained herself an indepen- 
 dent Republic. Already six centuries had 
 rolled over this Old World Republic when the 
 boldest of her sailors embarked at Palos on his 
 voyage of discovery. " Were it not for him 
 we might all of us to-day be — Indians," is the 
 curious thought that comes to one of the pil- 
 grims as he gazes on the massive monument, 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 63 
 
 near the railway station, which bears the leg- 
 end in huge letters : 
 
 A CHRISOFORO COLOMBO LA PATRIA 
 
 Ah, those might-have-beens of an unborn past! 
 It is bootless to speculate upon them. 
 
64 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 LouRDES, July 19, 1900. 
 
 OURDES is a small town in the dio- 
 cese of Tarbes, Hautes Pryenees, 
 picturesquely situated on the right 
 bank of the river Gave." I quote the words 
 from a booklet which purports to be " A Short 
 Account of the Apparitions and Miracles at 
 Lourdes." We arrived here from Toulouse 
 about five o'clock on the afternoon of the 
 day before yesterday. It had been a very 
 hot day in the cars, but all covered with sweat 
 and dust as we were we went straight in pro- 
 cession to the Grotto of Our Lady, without 
 waiting to go to our hotel. There, on our 
 knees before the statue, which smiles down 
 sweetly upon us, as did erstwhile the Virgin 
 Mother for whom it stands, upon the simple 
 peasant girl of the Pyrenees, we recite the 
 Rosary and sing the Magnificat. All about us 
 throngs are kneeling in prayer, and there are 
 signs of a subdued excitement, for just five 
 minutes before our arrival a young girl who 
 had suffered severe injuries by a fall three 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 65 
 
 years ago, and was carried thither in her little 
 carriage, a few hours before, was seen to rise 
 to her feet and walk. But neither before nor 
 after the cure did she report at the Bureau des 
 Constatations Medicales. 
 
 The words that I have quoted at the head of 
 this page were written twenty- four years ago 
 by an English priest who visited the shrine. 
 Were he now writing he would no longer say 
 that Lourdes is a small town. The old town 
 of Lourdes is, indeed, small, just a bit of a vil- 
 lage in the Pyrenees. But the new Lourdes 
 that has sprung up as if by magic on the banks 
 of the Gave, over against the famous Grotto, 
 has pretensions to rank as a city. It has its 
 banks, its public buildings, its electric cars, 
 rows upon rows of stores, though the wares 
 are almost wholly of a devotional character, 
 hotels and boarding houses without number, 
 and a population of about ten thousand souls. 
 And yet twenty-six years ago, just two years 
 before our English priest wrote his account, 
 there was not, as an old inhabitant told us, a 
 stone upon a stone of the modern, and, for the 
 most part, handsome buildings that one sees 
 to-day. 
 
 Nature has lavished her charms on this fav- 
 
66 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 oured spot. Nothing is wanting of all that can 
 please the eye or soothe and rest the mind in 
 natural scenery. Lofty hills in front and in 
 the rear, some bare and bald, others clothed 
 with forest to their very tops; in the back- 
 ground, the snow-clad peaks and spurs of the 
 Pyrenees; at your feet a narrow valley, stud- 
 ded with stately trees and carpeted with green- 
 sward; and ever in your ears, though the eye 
 wearied with gazing, should seek repose, the 
 rushing waters of the Gave. Surely a fitting 
 entourage for this most gracious of all our 
 Lady's shrines ! 
 
 The waters of the Gave, how swiftly and 
 noisily they flow, flinging themselves passion- 
 ately upon the rude rocks that would stay their 
 onward course ! The murmur of the Gave has 
 been in my ears from a boy, for I seemed to 
 hear the rushing of its waters when in boy- 
 hood's days I lingered over the pages of Henri 
 Lasserre's fascinating story of the wonders of 
 Lourdes. And to-day as I sit on the bank and 
 gaze down upon the swift stream that flings 
 itself into the Adour to mingle finally with the 
 waters of the mighty Atlantic, the Gave of my 
 boyish dreams is a reality. It is something 
 more. It is an emblem at once and a sermon — 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 67 
 
 an emblem of the surging multitude of pil- 
 grims which ever keeps streaming to the Grotto 
 of our Lady, flowing hither from the ends of 
 the earth; a sermon on the true purpose of life. 
 See how this eager mountain stream, like a 
 thing of life, runs joyously to its rest in the 
 bosom of the great ocean! Not less surely 
 was it meant by Nature to find there its repose 
 than we are meant by the Author of Nature to 
 find our repose in Him. Yet we linger by the 
 way and loiter, while the Gave leaps onward, 
 oh, how swiftly and how surely! to its goal 
 and the home of its rest. 
 
 But the Gave has not always been at this 
 point the deep, narrow, noisy stream that it is 
 to-day. Once it roamed at will over its rocky 
 bed, making for itself a wider and more spa- 
 cious pathway. Now stout stone walls fence 
 it in and confine it to a narrow channel, and it 
 frets and foams as does the wild beast of the 
 forest when imprisoned behind iron bars. In 
 these hot July days, too, the Gave runs deeper 
 and swifter, fed by the melting snows of the 
 Pyrenees. But on that February day, forty- 
 two years ago, it was a feeble and mild-man- 
 nered stream. Bernadette and her two little 
 companions crossed the main stream by the 
 
68 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 stone bridge. But a narrow side channel still 
 separated them from the Grotto in the rocks 
 of Massabielle, where was plenty of the drift 
 wood they were in search of. Stooping down 
 slowly to pull off her shoes and stockings with 
 a view of wading this stream, Bernadette 
 heard a noise as of a sudden gust of wind. 
 " It was a calm grey day, and not a twig of 
 the poplars was stirring, yet she felt certain 
 that she had heard the rush of air. She 
 stooped down again, and again the mysterious 
 current startled her. This time the child 
 looked up towards the niche-shaped cave. To 
 her amazement a clear bright light issued from 
 the aperture, in the midst of which stood a 
 woman more wondrously beautiful than any 
 one Bernadette had ever seen, or could have 
 imagined. She was clad in white, with a long 
 white veil falling over her shoulders; a blue 
 scarf encircled her waist and reached to her 
 knees, and upon either bare foot was a gold- 
 coloured rose." I am quoting from my little 
 book. But the story has been often told and 
 is trite now, though it can never be common- 
 place. 
 
 The number of pilgrims who visit Lourdes 
 yearly is estimated at two hundred and fifty 
 
 I 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 69 
 
 thousand. They come from every country un- 
 der the sun. The two ends of America are 
 wide enough asunder, yet the fact of our be- 
 ing from the same continent is a real bond be- 
 tween ourselves and our fellow-pilgrims from 
 Brazil, whom we meet here at the shrine of our 
 Lady as we met them at Paray le Monial and 
 again in the audience chamber of the Vatican. 
 * * Hi 
 
70 THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 
 
 LouRDEs, Saturday, July 21. 
 
 VERY DAY since our coming here has 
 been for us a day of prayer, and, at the 
 same time, a day of rest — rest for body 
 and for soul. There is something in the very 
 atmosphere of Lourdes which inspires devo- 
 tion and invites repose. Every morning the 
 pilgrims assist at Mass in the Grotto and many 
 receive Holy Communion. We all of us take 
 our places, too, in the procession of the Blessed 
 Sacrament, and at night, in the torch-light pro- 
 cession. This morning at ten o'clock we had 
 Solemn High Mass in the Grotto, with a 
 Canadian as celebrant, Canadians as ministers 
 at the altar, and Canadians as singers. The 
 service was, of course, in the open air, and 
 very solemn and impressive it was. While we 
 joined in the chant of the Mass, the wind in 
 the trees around about us seemed to sing an 
 accompaniment, and the hoarse-sounding Gave 
 lent its deep bass voice as it sped on its way to 
 the ocean. 
 
 To-morrow at eleven o'clock we bid adieu 
 
THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM 71 
 
 to Lourdes. With Lourdes our pilgrimage 
 ends. At Paris, where we are due Monday 
 evening, our pilgrim party breaks up. Some 
 will stay there for a season, others will sail 
 from Liverpool on the following Thursday, 
 and yet others will visit parts of Scotland, 
 Ireland, Belgium, or of France itself, before 
 turning their steps homeward. Of this number 
 is the present writer. But here at Lourdes, as 
 I have said, our pilgrimage ends. And so 
 from Lourdes, from this sweet shrine of Our 
 Lady by the sounding waters of the Gave, let 
 me send after its fellows this last leaf from 
 The Diary of a Pilgrim. 
 
JOTTINGS OF A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 f»gig^E/\VI N G Liverpool with its din and 
 K|^3l|j smoke behind, we begin our journey by 
 rail, through the northwestern part of 
 England toward the Scottish border. It is 
 near the end of July, and the weather, for Eng- 
 land, is hot. But coming as we do direct from 
 the stifling heat of Paris, we find it cool by 
 comparison. We are travelling by fast express, 
 and can catch but passing glimpses of the towns 
 and hamlets, the broad farms and comfortable 
 homesteads, of Old England. Now we are 
 dashing through one of the many manufactur- 
 ing towns with which the land is studded. 
 There are long rows of red brick houses, with 
 here and there a huge chimney belching forth 
 black smoke. The next moment we are once 
 more in the open country. On either hand as 
 far as the eye can reach, are great stretches of 
 farmland and green pastures where cattle are 
 grazing. The grain is ripening in the fields, 
 and ever and anon there comes, through the 
 72 
 
A TRIP IN SCOTLAND 73 
 
 open window of the car, the sweet savour of 
 new-mown hay. As we go further north the 
 country grows more rugged. Dark ravines 
 open at our feet, and shaggy hills frown down 
 upon us. By three o'clock we have passed 
 Carlisle, once the great stronghold of England 
 against the fierce incursions of its warlike 
 neighbour to the north. Soon after we cross 
 the border and find ourselves on Scottish soil. 
 It is the land of our fathers — 
 
 Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, 
 Land of the mountain and the flood, — 
 
 a land of stirring memories and teeming with 
 romance. It is not without emotion, there- 
 fore, that we enter it for the first time. Nor 
 does the dense Scotch mist into which we run 
 before reaching Edinburgh damp our enthusi- 
 asm in the least — though we should not be able 
 to say as much for our persons were we ex- 
 posed to it but for a moment. 
 
 We spend the Sunday in Edinburgh. That 
 droll Frenchman who writes under the pen- 
 name of Max O'Rell, defines a Scotchman as 
 one who keeps the Sabbath and everything 
 else he can lay his hands on! Well, at any 
 
74 A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 rate he keeps the Sabbath, and that is more 
 than many a Frenchman does. For the people 
 of Edinburgh the Sunday is still emphatically a 
 day of rest. To a Protestant gentleman from 
 Toronto who had just come from Paris him- 
 self and put up at the same hotel with us, we 
 remark upon the contrast between the Parisian 
 Sunday and the solemn quiet of the Scotch Sab- 
 bath. " Quite so," he says, " but you should 
 have been here yesterday while the Labor Pa- 
 rade was passing through the streets. You 
 would have seen one after another of the men 
 dropping out of the procession in a state of 
 beastly intoxication. In all the time that I was 
 in Paris I saw no single instance of such drunk- 
 enness." He had come away from Paris 
 greatly edified, and was leaving Edinburgh ut- 
 terly disgusted and horrified at what he had 
 seen. Sobriety was more to him than Sunday 
 observance. And yet human frailty may ac- 
 count for drunkenness, and palliate it at least 
 in part. But the violation of the Sunday has 
 its root cause, it is to be feared, in a spirit of 
 contempt for the ordinances of the Christian 
 Religion. 
 
 Edinburgh is not only the capital of Scot- 
 land, but the queen of Scottish cities. There 
 
A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 75 
 
 are few finer cities, indeed, in all the world. 
 Its broad and well paved streets are kept scru- 
 pulously clean. The buildings, almost all of 
 them of granite, are tall and stately. And the 
 site with its picturesque setting of hills is su- 
 perb. On one of these hills, west from Prince 
 street and Scott's Monument, stands the his- 
 toric Castle like a grim sentinel guarding the 
 approaches of the City. Climbing the hill and 
 entering by the draw-bridge, we see, among 
 other interesting relics of the past, the Chapel 
 of the saintly Queen Margaret, and stand in 
 the room where the ill-fated Mary Stuart took 
 refuge after the murder of Rizzio, and where 
 was born James the Sixth of Scotland and the 
 First of England. In another room hard by 
 we gaze upon the ancient Regalia of Scotland, 
 " worthy of a nation's pride and jealous pres- 
 ervation." 
 
 The run from Edinburgh to Glasgow by rail 
 is made in a little more than one hour. Our 
 route lies through Lanarkshire, famed for its 
 coal mines and iron foundries. Glasgow, with 
 a population of over one million, is the second 
 city of the Empire. Unlike Edinburgh, it has 
 no pretentions to beauty. Still, it has some 
 fine streets and very beautiful parks. It con- 
 
76 A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 tains, too, not a few notable buildings, and 
 there are in and around it many places of 
 great historic interest. Its water supply, 
 brought from Loch Katrine, thirty miles dis- 
 tant, is not surpassed perhaps by that of any 
 other city in the world. 
 
 Early in the morning we leave Glasgow for 
 Oban by boat. Steaming down the Clyde, we 
 get a good view of the docks and of the ships 
 both great and small that are a-building on 
 either bank. A few miles down the river is 
 Douglas Castle, and a little beyond, on the sum- 
 mit of a rock 260 feet in height, rises Dum- 
 barton Castle, famed in Scottish story. We 
 touch at Greenock and Dunoon, and thence 
 make for Rothesay, the capital of Bute. On 
 our left, as we near the Bute shore, we see 
 Mount Stuart House, the seat of the Marquis. 
 
 Leaving Rothesay, the steamer runs up the 
 Kyles or narrows (from the Gaelic caolas, a 
 strait) of Bute, round the northern end of the 
 island, and down the other side towards Ardla- 
 mont Point on the mainland. The scenery on 
 this strait is very fine, wooded mountain, loch, 
 and glen blending their varied beauties into 
 one picturesque whole. Rounding Ardlamont 
 Point, we steer straight for the harbour of 
 
A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 77 
 
 Tarbert, on the coast of Kintyre. Away to the 
 south, and but dimly visible in the haze, is the 
 island of Arran. From Tarbert we proceed 
 up Loch Fyne to Ardrishaig, i8o miles from 
 Glasgow, at the head of the Crinan Canal. 
 This canal, which connects Loch Fyne with 
 Loch Crinan, and is nine miles in length, runs, 
 for a great part of the way, along the base of 
 forest-clad hills. 
 
 By this time, unluckily for us, it has begun 
 to rain heavily, which mars our enjoyment of 
 the rest of the trip to Oban. As the boat stops 
 for the opening of the locks of the canal, we 
 hear people on shore talking in Gaelic and real- 
 ize that we have left the Lowlands behind. In 
 spite of the rain two little barefooted girls and 
 a little boy who has shoes on (shame on him!) 
 follows us from lock to lock, selling milk by 
 the glassful to the passengers. The children 
 are quite brave at first, and stare at us, as much 
 as to say, " What do we care what these En- 
 glish strangers say or think of us." But the 
 moment I speak to them in Gaelic, they grow 
 shy of me, and the poor little girls look as if 
 they were ashamed to be seen in their bare feet. 
 
 Leaving Crinan, the western terminus of 
 the canal, we have on our right the mainland 
 
78 A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 of Argyle; on our left are the islands of Jura 
 and Scarba. Between the two is the famous 
 whirlpool of Corryvrechan, the roar of which 
 may be heard at a distance of many miles. 
 Away in the west, beyond Ross of Mull, lies 
 far-famed lona, with Ulva dark and Colonsay 
 
 And all the group of islets gay 
 That guard famed Staffa round. 
 
 Presently we descry Dunollie Castle, once the 
 chief stronghold of the Lords of Lorn, and 
 soon after land in Oban. 
 
 Oban has been called the Charing Cross of 
 the Highlands. And such it is in the sense of 
 being the great distributing centre for tourists 
 and travellers by rail or boat. But in every 
 other sense how unlike is this quiet little town, 
 with its cosy harbour and crescent beach, where 
 the wavelets play at hide-and-seek with the 
 pebbles, to the bustling railway station in the 
 heart of the biggest and busiest of all earth's 
 cities! During the summer months this cosy 
 harbour is crowded with pleasure yachts from 
 all parts of the world, and the hotels that line 
 the pebbly beach are thronged with tourists 
 from every land. 
 
A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 79 
 
 For Oban is a dainty place 
 In distant or in nigh lands, 
 
 No town delights the tourist race 
 Like Oban in the Highlands. 
 
 So wrote the late Professor Blackie, himself a 
 frequent visitor in his day to this charming re- 
 sort on the shore of the western sea. 
 
 At Oban in the early morning we take the 
 " Gael " steamship for far Gairloch in Ros- 
 shire. Dunollis Castle is on our right as we 
 steam out of Oban Bay and make for Lismore 
 Light, on the extreme southern end of the 
 island of that name. Thence our way lies 
 through the Sound of Mull to Ardnamurchan 
 Point. The scenery along this Sound, where 
 you have the mountains of Mull on the one 
 hand, and on the other those of misty Morven, 
 is surpassingly grand. Here on the Morven 
 shore, in Ardtornish Castle, ancient seat of the 
 Lords of the Isles, is laid the opening scene of 
 Scott's well-known poem, which begins with 
 the lines : 
 
 " Wake, maid of Lorn," the minstrels sung. 
 Thy rugged halls, Ardtornish, rung, 
 And the dark seas thy towers that lave, 
 
80 A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 Heaved on the beach a softer wave, 
 As 'mid the tuneful choir to keep 
 The diapason of the deep. 
 
 Near the other end of the sound is Tober- 
 mory (Mary's Well), the chief seaport of 
 Mull, a very pretty town, in whose land-locked 
 harbour ships of any tonnage find securest an- 
 chorage. This port has for us a very special 
 interest, as we have reason to believe that 
 from hence our grand-parents sailed in the 
 dawn of the century to make for themselves a 
 home, beyond the stormy Atlantic, in what was 
 then the wild woods of Nova Scotia. 
 
 All day long, from early morn till set of 
 sun, we follow our sinuous course through the 
 sounds and lochs and bays of this western sea, 
 calling here or there to land or take on pas- 
 sengers. After leaving Torbermory while 
 rounding Ardnamurchan Point, and until we 
 gain the shelter of towering Scaur-Eigg, a per- 
 pendicular cliff some five hundred feet high at 
 the southwestern extremity of the island of 
 that name, we are in the open Atlantic, with 
 no land to the west of us nearer than America. 
 North of Ardnamurchan lies Moidart, where 
 Prince Charlie landed on the 25th of July, 
 
A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 81 
 
 1745, and whence after many wanderings and 
 hair-breadth escapes he sailed, on the 20th Sep- 
 tember of the following year, a hopeless and 
 broken man. 
 
 From Eigg we cross over to Arisaig. 
 Judging by what one can see of it from the 
 deck of a steamer, it is far from being as fer- 
 tile as the district that has been named after it 
 in Nova Scotia. But perhaps there is no other 
 spot on the western coast of Scotland where 
 the view landward and seaward is so varied 
 and so magnificent. 
 
 After landing passengers at Arisaig, we 
 steam along the coast of Morar on the main- 
 land, having on our left the islands of Eigg, 
 Rum, and Canna, and in front of us the south- 
 ern extremity of Skye. Soon we enter the 
 Sound of Sleat, and passing through the Kyle 
 of Lochalsh, hug the eastern or inner shore of 
 Skye till we reach Portree. It is a perfect day. 
 The sun shines brightly, and the face of the 
 laughing waters is gently fanned by the sum- 
 mer winds. And the scenery is as grand as it 
 is diversified. Leaving Portree (King's Port), 
 so-called from having been visited by James 
 V. of Scotland while cruising round these isles, 
 we enter once more the Sound of Raasay. On 
 
83 A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 the Skye shore, near the little island of Holm, 
 is to be seen the entrance to a cave famed as 
 one of the hiding places of the unfortunate 
 Prince Charlie. Presently we pass out of the 
 Sound of Raasay and enter the Minch. On 
 the left, beyond the northern promontory of 
 Skye, some of the Hebridean Islands are 
 visible in the dim distance. Behind us the 
 mountains of Skye rise in gloomy grandeur. 
 As one gazes upon them, there comes to one's 
 mind these words of MacCrimmon's Lament, 
 done into English by Sir Walter Scott : 
 
 Farewell to each clifif, on which breakers are 
 
 foaming, 
 Farewell to each dark glen in which red deer 
 
 are roaming; 
 Farewell lovely Skye, to lake, mountain, and 
 
 river — 
 Return, return, return, we shall never. 
 (Cha till, cha till, cha till sinn tuille.) 
 
 Galrloch has a fine hotel — with prices to 
 match. It is a charming place, this quiet ham- 
 let by the sea, but lonely withal. For here, 
 away up north, one has that sense of isolation, 
 of being cut off from the great world, which 
 is itself twin-sister to the feeling of loneliness. 
 
A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 83 
 
 We leave Gairloch early in the morning for 
 Inverness, travelling by coach for 30 miles to 
 Achnasheen (Field of the Fairies) and thence 
 by rail. In the first five miles the road runs, 
 part of the time, through a fine forest of 
 larches, which seem to be related to our 
 juniper tree, but are very tall and stately. On 
 emerging from the wood and beginning the 
 descent of a steep hill, we come of a sudden 
 upon a loch which seems to surpass all the 
 Scottish lochs in the wild and rugged gran- 
 deur of the scenery along its shores. It was 
 some such sight as here greets our eyes that 
 inspired Sir Walter's muse to sing, — 
 
 Stranger; if e'er thine ardent step hath traced 
 The northern realms of ancient Caledon, 
 Where the proud Queen of Wilderness hath 
 
 placed, 
 By lake and cataract her lonely throne ; 
 Sublime but sad delight thy soul hath known, 
 Gazing on pathless glen and mountain high, 
 Listing where from the cliffs the torrents 
 
 thrown 
 Mingle their echoes with the eagle's cry, 
 And with the sounding lake, and with the 
 
 moaning sky. 
 
84 A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 For where more fittingly than here by Loch 
 Maree, on some lonely mountain peak, could 
 the Queen of Wilderness set up her throne? 
 Here, in sooth, are pathless glen and mountain 
 high and torrents flung from cliffs. And the 
 very spirit of Desolation seems to brood over 
 the place. You may travel miles on this loch 
 without seeing a single human habitation. 
 Steep mountains, bare of trees and even of 
 vegetation, shut it in on all sides. The loftiest 
 peak in Ruadh Stac Mor, which rises to a 
 height of 3,309 feet; but there are several 
 other peaks almost as high. Half way up the 
 loch is a summer hotel for tourists, where 
 Queen Victoria stayed a week something more 
 than a score of years ago. Over against this 
 hotel, near the other side of the loch, is a 
 wooded islet, called Isle Maree, on which 
 may be seen the ruins of a monastery, " in 
 days of yore," says our guide book, " an oasis 
 of learning in the desert of heathenism." 
 Tradition has it that the waters of a well on 
 this little island (mayhap another Tobair 
 Moire or Mary's Well!) cured insanity — a 
 tradition which the gentle Quaker poet Whit- 
 tier has embalmed in these lines : 
 
 1 
 
A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 85 
 
 Calm on the breast of Isle Maree 
 
 A little Well reposes: 
 A shadow woven of the oak 
 
 And willow o'er it closes, 
 And whoso bathes therein his brow, 
 
 With care or madness burning, 
 Feels once again his healthful thought 
 
 And sense of peace returning. 
 Life's changes vex, its discords stun, 
 
 Its glaring sunshine blindeth; 
 And blest is he who on his way 
 
 That fount of healing findeth! 
 
 I suspect that Loch Maree is an English 
 corruption of the Gaelic Loch Mairi (Loch 
 Mary or Mary's Loch). The monks were 
 ever and everywhere devout clients of the 
 Blessed Mary. It is not at all unlikely, there- 
 fore, that the community of monks who an- 
 ciently made their home In this romantic spot 
 named both the loch and the little Isle on which 
 they built their monastery after their Heavenly 
 Patroness. 
 
 On leaving Loch Maree the road follows 
 the bed of a brook for some distance up a dark 
 glen. On either hand are " rising mountains 
 red with heather bells," on the slopes of which 
 
86 A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 the hardy Highland sheep are grazing. Once 
 the summit of the ridge is gained, it is down 
 hill to Achnasheen, where we take the train 
 for Inverness. Our way for several miles lies 
 through a wilderness, but all at once we come 
 upon a lovely strath, in as high a state of culti- 
 vation as any district we have seen in the Low- 
 lands or even in England. It looks all the 
 more beautiful by contrast with the barren and 
 desolate region through which we have just 
 passed. The name of it I cannot for the 
 moment recall. But the valley itself as I saw 
 it, with the bloom of summer upon it, and the 
 light of the westering sun, is vividly present to 
 my imagination. 
 
 Inverness, at the mouth of the River Ness, 
 is, after Edinburgh, the handsomest city in 
 Scotland. Prof. Blackie sings its praises in 
 the following sonnet : 
 
 Some sing of Rome, and some of Florence; I 
 
 Will sound thy Highland praise, fair Inver- 
 ness ; 
 
 And till some worthier bard thy thanks may 
 buy, 
 
 Hope for the greater, but not spurn the less. 
 
 All things that make a city fair are thine, 
 
A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 87 
 
 The rightful queen and sovereign of this land 
 Of bens and glens, and valiant men, who shine 
 Brightest in Britain's glory roll, and stand 
 Best bulwarks of her bounds — wide-circling 
 
 sweep 
 Of rich green slopes and brown empurpled 
 
 brae, 
 And flowering mead, and far inwinding bay, 
 Temple and tower are thine, and castled keep, 
 And ample stream, that round fair gardened 
 
 isles 
 Rolls its majestic current, wreathed in smiles. 
 
 Scotland, as a glance at a map of the globe 
 will show, is several degrees farther north than 
 Nova Scotia. Up here at Inverness, during the 
 first week of August, the twilight lasts till af- 
 ter 10 p. m. Towards the end of June, when 
 the day is at its longest, the sun does no more 
 than dip for a few hours below the horison, 
 and at no time of the night does its light fade 
 away altogether from the northern sky. 
 
 Four miles from Inverness is Culloden 
 Moor. But we visit not that ''field of the 
 dead " so fraught with saddening memories 
 to every Highlander. 
 
 Leaving the capital of the Highlands, we go 
 
88 A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 by boat to Fort William through the Cale- 
 donian Canal. This passage is sixty-two miles 
 long. There are twenty-four miles of canal, 
 and thirty-eight of natural lake, namely, Loch 
 Ness (24 miles), Loch Oich (4 miles), and 
 Loch Lochy (10 miles). On these lochs and 
 along the stretches of land between them the 
 scenery is of surpassing beauty. On either 
 side is a range of purple hills rising in places 
 to a great height. Now they close in about us 
 as if to dispute our passage. The next moment 
 they fall back and form into line in the rear, 
 keeping ward over the great highway of waters 
 that cleaves the land of the Scottish Gael in 
 twain and weds two seas together. And now 
 Ben Nevis (4,406 ft.) looms afar ofif on the 
 left, lording it over all the hills. At his feet 
 and under his very shadow stands Fort Wil- 
 liam, known to the old folk as An Gearristan. 
 Along the plain below rolls the Lochy River 
 till it empties its waters into Loch Linnhe. 
 Those glens that lie at the foot of the moun- 
 tain range northeastward from Ben Nevis are 
 Ruaidh and Spean, along the rivers of the same 
 name. And this is Lochaber, " synonym for 
 an exile's wail." Children we of those sad- 
 eyed exiles, is it any wonder that our hearts 
 
A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 89 
 
 beat more quickly as we gaze on the heather- 
 clad hills now rising before us? Even we, 
 of the third generation, still feel within us 
 something of their heart-hunger for the old 
 home they loved so well— the heart-hunger 
 which found a voice and still finds an echo in 
 that saddest of sad refrains, 
 
 Lochaber, Lochaber, Lochaber no more, 
 We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more. 
 
 The Highlands, and the islands on the west 
 of Scotland, are to-day but sparsely populated. 
 A hundred years ago these lovely straths and 
 glens were filled with people. Even the braes 
 and moorlands, now so bare and barren, 
 yielded a frugal livelihood to a hardy race of 
 men whose wants were few and tastes most 
 simple. To-day whole districts are given over 
 to sheep and deer. 
 
 In Highland glens 'tis far too oft observed, 
 That man is chased away and game preserved. 
 
 So wrote the Hon. John Bright, in blunt but 
 honest English fashion. More pathetic is the 
 tale of desolation as told in Gaelic verse — in 
 
90 A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 lines of exquisite tenderness and beauty — by 
 one who is a native of those glens and " to the 
 manner born " — one who has in our own day 
 successfully wooed the Highland Muse " 'mang 
 the bonnie Highland heather " — Macleod, the 
 spirited bard of Skye. I quote two or three 
 stanzas from his poem, Anns a Ghleann 'san 
 RobhMiOg: 
 
 Tha na fardaichean 'n an fasaich 
 Far an d'araicheadh na seoid, 
 Far'm bu chridheil fuaim an gaire, 
 Far'm bu chairdeal iad mun bhord; 
 Far a fhaigheadh coigreach baigh, 
 Agus anrach bochd a Ion ; 
 Ach cha'n fhaigh iad sin's an am so 
 Anns a' ghleann's an robh mi og. 
 
 Chaochail maduinn ait ar n-oige 
 
 Mar an ceo air bharr nam beann, 
 Tha ar cairdean 's ar luchd-eolais 
 
 Air a fogradh bhos us thall; 
 Tha cuid eile dbuibh nach gluais, 
 
 Tha'n na cadal buan fodh'n fhod, 
 'Bha gun uaill. gun fhuath. gun anthlachd, 
 
 Anns a' ghleann's an robh iad og. 
 
A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 91 
 
 Mo shoraidh leis gach cuairteig, 
 
 Leis gach bruachaig agus cos : 
 Mu'n trie an robh mi 'cluaineis 
 
 'N am 'bhi buachailleachd nam bo — 
 'Nuair a thig mo reis gu 'ceann, 
 
 Agus feasgar fann mo lo, 
 B'e mo mhiann a bhi's an am sin 
 
 Anns a' ghleann's an robh mi og. 
 
 The song has been done into English, or 
 rather into mixed Enghsh and broad Scotch, 
 but it has lost somewhat in the rendering. The 
 foregoing stanzas run thus in the translation : 
 
 Now in ruins are the dwellin's, 
 
 Where ance lived a gallant clan ; 
 Their's was aye the friendly welcome, 
 
 Their's was aye the open han' ; 
 There the stranger and the puir 
 
 Found a place at the fire-en' ; 
 Now alas! there's nane tae greet them 
 
 In my bonnie native glen. 
 
 Like the mist upon the mountain 
 Youth's glad morn of promise died, 
 
 And our kinsfolk and acquaintance, 
 They are scattered far and wide; 
 
92 A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 Some of them are sleepin' soun' 
 
 Neath the shadow of the ben, 
 That were ance baith leal and hearty 
 
 In their bonnie native glen. 
 
 But now fare ye weel each fountain, 
 
 Each sweet dell an' grassy brae, 
 Where fu' aft the kye I herded, 
 
 In my boyhood's happy day. 
 When life's gloamin' settles down, 
 
 An' my race is at an en', 
 'Tis my wish that death should find me 
 
 In my bonnie native glen. 
 
 Wherever you travel in the Western High- 
 lands you hear Gaelic spoken. And ever as it 
 strikes upon your ears, there arises within you 
 — at least if you happen to be a Highlander 
 yourself — the question, Will the old tongue 
 live on here amid the bens and glens that have 
 echoed with it since immemorial time ? Or is it 
 doomed to die out in this its ancient home ? It 
 is hard to say. For my own part, I believe 
 Gaelic will be spoken in the Highlands so long 
 as there are Highlanders there. But I don't 
 know how long that will be. Certainly they 
 are far fewer to-day than they were at the be- 
 
A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 9S 
 
 ginning of the last century. And the country 
 is becoming more and more a mere summer re- 
 sort for tourists and sportsmen. As matters 
 stand at present there is no future for the 
 Highland youth in their Highland home. On 
 growing up to manhood and womanhood, they 
 drift into the cities of the Lowlands, or cross 
 the ocean. And ever as they go, their sad 
 hearts echo the wailing notes of MacCrimmon's 
 Lament, or Lochaber No More. I wish I 
 could share the confidence in the ultimate re- 
 peopling of the Highlands that is expressed — 
 perhaps rather than felt — by the Skye bard al- 
 ready quoted, in the following lines : 
 
 'S bidh fhathast a cairdean 
 
 Mar bha iad bho chian, 
 An' duthaich nan ardbheann 
 
 An aite nam fiadh ; 
 Gu curanta' laidir, 
 
 Gu blath-chridheach fial, 
 'S an comhradh gach la 
 
 Ann an canan nam Fionn. 
 
 With the Gaelic language there also survives 
 in the Highlands the hospitable spirit for which 
 Highlanders, and all Celts indeed, are noted 
 
94 A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 wherever they are found. But while the 
 people there give of their Highland cheer to all 
 who visit them, they have a particularly warm 
 place in their hearts for *' muinntir America/' 
 their kinsmen from across the seas. 
 
 Leaving Fort William, we go by boat on 
 Loch Linnhe to Oban. The boat calls at 
 several places, among them Ballachulish, at the 
 entrance to Loch Leven, whence we get a 
 glimpse in the distance of Glencoe. Even on 
 this bright summers day the narrow pass, 
 hemmed in by frowning mountains, looks 
 gloomy and dark — fitting theatre for the black 
 and fearful tragedy that was enacted there. 
 
 From Oban we return to Glasgow through 
 the Trossachs, part of the way by rail, part 
 of the way by boat on Loch Lomond and Loch 
 Katrine, and part of the way by coach between 
 the lochs. The whole country through which 
 we pass is classic ground, familiar to every 
 lover of Scott. To describe the scenery of the 
 Trossachs, therefore, after the exquisite word- 
 painting of it in prose and verse that we have 
 from the pen of Sir Walter, were as " wasteful 
 and ridiculous excess " as 
 
A TRIP IN SCOTLAND. 95 
 
 To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, 
 To add a perfume to the violet. 
 
 As I write these last words the solemn bells 
 are tolling the death-knell of our beloved 
 Queen. The whole Empire mourns, and the 
 grief is heartfelt, for all own and feel to-day 
 the truth of the lines written by the worthiest 
 poet laureate of the long and glorious reign 
 that is now ended, 
 
 " Her court was pure; her life serene: 
 God gave her peace, her land reposed ; 
 A thousand claims to reverence closed 
 In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen." 
 
ROME. 
 
 A Christmas Reminiscence. 
 
 V^^j^T is not often I am in a reminiscent 
 ^1^ mood. Even should the mood come 
 upon me, I can seldom indulge 
 it. In this work-a-day world the cares 
 and duties of the present crowd out the 
 memories of the past. But ever as the 
 blessed season of Christmas comes round the 
 mind is in a measure freed from the tyrant 
 grasp of the present. And at the approach of 
 this festival mine loves to go back, swiftly 
 overleaping the. barriers of space and time, to 
 the dear old City on the Tiber, where I spent 
 five of the happiest years of my life. I can 
 remember as distinctly as though it were yes- 
 terday the day when first I set foot in Rome. 
 It was toward the end of October, 1879. The 
 sun shone out brightly from the deep blue of 
 the Italian sky, and the soft, balmy breath of 
 summer still lingered in the air. From early 
 morning we had traversed a land of almost 
 96 
 
ROME 97 
 
 ideal loveliness, now skirting the shores of the 
 sparkling Mediterranean, now dashing past 
 villas and vineyards where the air was laden 
 with the fragrance of the vintage. The sun 
 was slowly sinking in the west as we passed 
 Civita Vecchia, the seaport of Rome, and sped 
 on our way through the dreary waste of the 
 Roman Campagna. Soon the Alban Hills 
 loomed up in front, while the line of sea-coast 
 stretching away on the right was fast fading 
 from the view. There, where the Tiber flings 
 its tawny waters into the Mediterranean, once 
 stood the City of Ostia, the ancient seaport of 
 Rome, facing, as every student of Virgil 
 knows, in the far distance, Carthage, Rome's 
 most dreaded rival while yet she was '* dives 
 opum studiisque asperrima belli." 
 
 And now we are within the city walls, the 
 train draws up to the depot, and I step forth, 
 a stranger indeed, yet not with the feelings of 
 one who sets foot in a strange city : for Rome, 
 though force has made it the capital of United 
 Italy, is and always will be the capital of 
 Christendom, the centre from which radiate 
 the lights of Catholicity over all the earth, and 
 the home of the pilgrim from every land. 
 
 One who goes from America into Europe 
 
98 ROME 
 
 realizes that to have crossed the Atlantic is not 
 merely to have left one part of the habitable 
 globe and gone into another. It is a passing 
 from the New World into the Old, in almost 
 every respect a different world from the one 
 that is left behind. And in no place as at Rome 
 is it brought home to one who crosses the ocean 
 that the Atlantic is not the only gulf that di- 
 vides these two worlds. Rome is the typical 
 city of the Old World, or rather is the Old 
 World in miniature. There all its most strik- 
 ing characteristics meet as they do in no other 
 European city. There you may study old world 
 customs and the old world life in its many 
 phases, old world art and architecture, and 
 above all those old-world monuments and ruins 
 around which gather a thousand historical as- 
 sociations. Here rises the Palatine Hill, the 
 original site and centre of the embryo mistress 
 of the world, where tradition places the dwell- 
 ing of Romulus, and where later stood the 
 gorgeous palace of the Caesars, whose ruins 
 still attest its old-time grandeur. Below is the 
 Roman Forum which once rang with the elo- 
 quence of Cicero, and traversing it from north 
 to south, the Via Sacra or Sacred Way. At 
 one end of the Forum is the Mamertine Prison, 
 
ROME 99 
 
 a dark and dismal underground dungeon, 
 where kings led captive by pagan Rome were 
 strangled or starved to death, and where still 
 exists the spring which, according to tradition, 
 St. Peter, imprisoned here under Nero, mi- 
 raculously caused to flow in order to baptize 
 his jailers. At some distance to the south 
 stands the Colosseum, nearly one-third of a 
 mile in circumference, and originally contain- 
 ing seats for 87,000 spectators. Here, in the 
 arena, the scene of gladiatorial combats, 
 thousands of Christian martyrs fought the 
 good fight and won the crown. A quaint pro- 
 phetic saying, which dates from the 8tli cen- 
 tury, has it that 
 
 While stands the Colosseum, Rome shall stand, 
 When falls the Colosseum, Rome shall fall. 
 And when Rome falls, with it shall fall the 
 World. 
 
 But I should never end if I were to speak of all 
 the monuments of both Pagan and Christian 
 Antiquity that make Rome the connecting link 
 between the ancient and the modern world. 
 
 The Rome of to-day is not the Rome of 
 twenty years ago. The tourist who wandered 
 
100 ROME 
 
 and mused among the ruins in and around 
 it then would scarcely know it now, so vast 
 is the change that has come over it. Your mat- 
 ter-of-fact modern man, who scowls at an- 
 tiquity and lives in and for the present only, 
 would say that the change has been greatly for 
 the better. Streets have been widened and 
 straightened, numberless new ones have been 
 opened, and the wide space east and south of 
 the Esquiline Hill, once studded with vener- 
 able ruins, is now occupied by rows of huge 
 brick buildings, inferior in make and unsightly. 
 In a word, the old Rome, amid whose magnif- 
 icent ruins still abode the genius of Antiquity, 
 has all but disappeared, and the new Rome, a 
 third-rate modern city, shorn of much of its 
 historical interest, has usurped its place. 
 " Rome in twenty or thirty years," wrote Mr. 
 Frederick Harrison recently in the " Fort- 
 nightly Review," " has become like any other 
 European city — big, noisy, vulgar, overgrown, 
 Frenchified and syndicate-ridden." 
 
 Rome, Rome thou art no more 
 
 As thou hast been! 
 On thy seven hills of yore 
 
 Thou sat' St a queen. 
 
ROME 101 
 
 Newman had written of it, on visiting it for 
 the first time in the early thirties of last cen- 
 tury : " And now what can I say of Rome, 
 but that it is the first of all cities, and that all 
 I ever saw are but as dust (even dear old Ox- 
 ford inclusive) compared with its majesty and 
 glory? " It has certainly since then lost much 
 of its charm for the tourist and the anti- 
 quarian. But the majesty and glory that so im- 
 pressed Newman — these no spoiler's hand can 
 pluck from the brow of the queenly city on the 
 Tiber. 
 
 It is not merely the glamour antiquity 
 throws around it that makes Rome a centre of 
 attraction. In the wondrous works of art gath- 
 ered into it from every side, in the number 
 and magnificence of its churches and shrines, 
 in the prestige it possesses as the capital of the 
 Christian world for eighteen hundred years, it 
 stands peerless among the cities of the earth. 
 Anything like a detailed account of the art 
 treasures in the Vatican alone would fill 
 volumes. Almost every church in Rome, too, 
 and every palace, has its works of art, its 
 paintings, mosaics, and sculptures, of priceless 
 value. And as for the churches, no words can 
 fittingly describe them. " They could not have 
 
102 ROME 
 
 been in any place but Rome, which has turned 
 the materials and buildings of the Empire to 
 the purposes of religion." The exterior, save 
 in the case of the large basilicas, is not strik- 
 ing; their beauty, like the glory of the king's 
 daughter, is within. St. Peter's, of course, 
 stands apart from and above them all, a world 
 of wonders in itself. The first visit does not 
 reveal its vastness nor the exquisite grace 
 and delicacy of its proportions. It is only by 
 visiting it again and again that one can, so 
 to speak, take it all in, if indeed one can 
 ever do so. There is this peculiarity about it, 
 too, that it has what, for want of a better 
 word to convey the idea, I am tempted to 
 call a climate of its own. In winter, when 
 Rome is swept by the tramontana, a penetrat- 
 ing and chilling wind which blows for days 
 at a time from the snow-capped Apennines, 
 making life scarce worth living in the fireless 
 apartments of the Roman dwellings, you will 
 find warmth and comfort within St. Peter's. 
 And in vain will you seek amid the shady 
 groves of the Roman villas for a tithe of the 
 delicious coolness that dwells within the 
 charmed circle of its walls all through the 
 broiling heat of the summer months in Rome. 
 
ROME lOd 
 
 And what of the festival of Christmas in the 
 Eternal City? In September, 1870, Victor 
 Emmanuel's troops entered Rome by the 
 breach of Porta Pia, and with their coming in 
 the old-time Christmas and the old-time Easter 
 went out. The faithful Romans have not had 
 a Merry Christmas since. The Pope used to 
 proceed in person to celebrate the midnight 
 Mass at St. Mary Major's, where is preserved 
 the Crib in which the Infant Saviour was laid 
 on the night of His Nativity. With the ex- 
 ception of the Easter celebrations, it was the 
 most imposing ceremony that could be wit- 
 nessed at Rome in those days. The Saviour's 
 Crib is always borne in procession through the 
 church of St. Mary Major's on Christmas Eve. 
 In some of the churches, and even in private 
 houses, the scene of the Christ Child's birth in 
 Bethlehem is represented in a wonderfully ar- 
 tistic and life-like way. One of these repre- 
 sentations, which are got up mainly for the chil- 
 dren, is to be seen in the church of Santa Maria 
 in Aracoeli, situated on the Capitoline Hill, 
 where once stood a temple of Jove. Hither we 
 students of the Propaganda used to wend our 
 way, during the days within the octave of 
 Christmas, to listen to the " children preachers 
 
104 ROME 
 
 of Aracoeli." These little ones, from five to 
 ten years of age, standing on a platform facing 
 the Christmas Crib, lifted their fresh young 
 voices in greeting and prayer to their new- 
 born King. It recalled the scene described in 
 Matt. 21:15-16: the children crying in the 
 temple, " Hosanna to the Son of David," and 
 Jesus saying to those who would rebuke them, 
 " Yea, have you never read, Out of the mouths 
 of infants and sucklings thou has perfected 
 praise." 
 
THE ROSES OF ASSISI. 
 
 ^^^N The Ave Maria, of February 8, 1908, 
 ^1^ the noted Danish writer, Johannes 
 Jorgensen, tells of a visit to Assisi, and 
 makes this passing allusion to the singular 
 phenomenon also alluded to in The Diary of a 
 Pilgrim : '' Then there is the rose garden 
 where the bushes are strangely flecked as if 
 with spots of blood." When the present writer 
 stood beside this little plot, in the early days of 
 July, 1900, the roses were not in bloom — it was 
 past their season in Italy — but the bushes were 
 in leaf, of course. Strictly speaking, it is not 
 the bushes that bear the flecks of red, but the 
 roses and the leaves. The impression made 
 upon one is not soon effaced. It looks for all 
 the world as if those leaves had been sprinkled 
 with blood. Here and there a leaf seems to 
 have caught a drop, a few, two or three, which 
 left a crimson stain, while most show a fleckless 
 green. But this is not the most striking phase 
 of the phenomenon. It has passed into a prov- 
 105 
 
106 THE ROSES OF ASSIST 
 
 erb that there is no rose without its thorn, 
 though Milton, in a flight of fancy, found in 
 our lost paradise, 
 
 Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the 
 rose. 
 
 But under the lovely sky of Italy and under 
 the shadow of the Umbrian hills, in fair As- 
 sisi, famed forever as the birthplace and early 
 home of the Poverello, grow roses without 
 thorns. The writer felt the bushes with his 
 hand, and proved them thornless. What is 
 more, our little pilgrim group, of whom some 
 have since gone on their long pilgrimage, were 
 told on that July day, seven years ago, by the 
 Prior of the Franciscan Monastery, a true son 
 of Saint Francis if appearances count for 
 aught, that time and time again was the ex- 
 periment made of transplanting those bushes, 
 and that they grew up with thorns and with 
 stainless leaves. Here is the legend, if legend 
 that can be called, which Nature seems to 
 vouch for, copied from a leaflet, enclosing a 
 spray of the rose leaves now brown with the 
 years, which the writer brought with him 
 from Assisi: 
 
THE ROSES OF ASSISI 107 
 
 " One bitter winter's night, S. Francis being 
 sorely tempted by the devil to lessen his aus- 
 terities, overcame the evil one by throwing him- 
 self into a thicket of briers, and rolling himself 
 in it till his body was all torn and bleeding. 
 At the same moment the briers were changed 
 into rose trees in full bloom, and a heavenly 
 brightness shone around, and angels came to 
 lead S. Francis to the Church of the Portiun- 
 cula, where Our Lord appeared to him in 
 Person accompanied by His Mother and a 
 heavenly host, and granted him the Indulgence 
 of the Portiuncula. The miraculous rose 
 bushes have no thorns, their leaves are stained 
 with spots like blood in May, and can be seen 
 in the Garden of the Friary adjoining the 
 Portiuncula at the village of Santa Maria degli 
 Angeli which is close to the Station of Assisi 
 in Italy." 
 
FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES. 
 
 December io, 'o8. 
 
 E leave New York at noon. It is a 
 perfect winter's day — the air cold and 
 crisp, the sun brightly shining. There 
 are all manner of craft in the North River, or 
 Hudson, and our big ship makes her way 
 among them with leisurely dignity. On our 
 starboard is Jersey City; on the port side, the 
 buildings of Old Manhattan raise their giant 
 forms, fearfully and wonderfully tall. Pres- 
 ently we pass by the statue of Liberty, and 
 leave the great metropolis of the New World 
 behind. A marvellous city is New York, 
 marching forward with gigantic strides to the 
 forefront of the world's cities. Even now it 
 is second only to London, and in ways not a 
 few it is first. We pass out of the roar of its 
 traffic, away from its teeming, busy life, and 
 the restful ocean takes us to its heaving 
 bosom. 
 
 " Our next port of call is Boston," says one 
 108 
 
FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES 109 
 
 passenger to another standing near him, just as 
 we are getting out to sea. " Not at all," re- 
 joins the other, *' this boat doesn't call at 
 Boston." An officer of the ship, who is stand- 
 ing by, is appealed to, and he bears out the 
 first speaker. The news is received with 
 surprise amounting almost to consternation. 
 Hardly one of the passengers knew of this 
 change in our programme of travel. Back 
 to Boston; it is like going back home again! 
 But to Boston we steer our course. Off Cape 
 Cod, miles and miles out at sea, men are fishing 
 in their dories. We pass within fifty yards of 
 one, but so intent is he upon his work that he 
 does not as much as cast one look at us. After 
 a little we pick up our pilot, and begin thread- 
 ing our way through the narrow entrance to 
 Boston harbour. 
 
 December ii. 
 
 Our ship is docked at Charlestown. We 
 go ashore, take an " L " road car at City 
 Square, and speedily reach Boston. Our 
 friends in the city, to whom we bade farewell 
 a few days before, are almost thunderstruck 
 at seeing us. They can scarce believe their 
 
110 FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES 
 
 eyes. We seem to have dropped upon them 
 from the skies, or rather to have been spirited 
 back through space from the ocean. A few 
 words clear up the mystery. Next morning 
 (Saturday) we say an early Mass, and hasten 
 back on board. But the good ship " Cretic " 
 is in no hurry to put to sea. She lingers for a 
 full hour beyond the allotted time. We could 
 not have missed her if we tried. 
 
 December 12. 
 
 It is snowing heavily as we steam slowly 
 out of Boston harbour. We drop our pilot, 
 and at noon have the lightship abeam. At 
 last we are fairly under way, but so thickly 
 falls the snow that we move along at little more 
 than half-speed, and the steamer's whistle 
 keeps blowing as in a fog. After an hour or 
 two we run out of the snowstorm, and the 
 whistling ceases. A tugboat inward bound, 
 towing three huge barges, is the last object we 
 descry this' day, for darkness soon settles upon 
 the scene. 
 
 This evening I sit and listen dreamily to the 
 soft accents of the Italian tongue. One or two 
 
FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES 111 
 
 of the saloon passengers are Italian and the 
 ship's doctor is a native of the land of sunshine 
 and song. It is twenty-five years since I dwelt 
 in that land, but those intonations strike the 
 ear and those inimitable gestures the eye as 
 familiarly as if it were but yesterday. What a 
 wonderful thing is memory! How it bridges 
 the years, and brings the dead past to life 
 again ! By it we reverse the poet's process, and 
 " stretch a hand through time to catch " the 
 forms of things long passed away. 
 
 " Vedi Napoli e poi Mori." This, my 
 Italian friend tells me, is the original of the 
 saying that runs in English : " See Naples 
 and die." As you approach Naples, Mount 
 Vesuvius rises in the rear, and beyond it is 
 the little town of Mori. The original saying 
 is, " See Naples and then Mori." But as it 
 happens that " mori " is also the imperative of 
 the verb " morire " — " to die," a play upon the 
 word gives the meaning, " See Naples and 
 then die " — as if no place else worth seeing 
 were left in all the wide world. 
 » « ft 
 
112 FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES 
 
 December 13. 
 
 Our first Sunday at sea, the third of Advent. 
 We have passed from the region of snow and 
 sleet, and the change is welcome. The morn- 
 ing breaks bright and clear, and as the day 
 wears on it grows distinctly warmer. The sun 
 shines out of a cloudless sky and the air is 
 balmy as in a June day. While I write the 
 thermometer out on the promenade deck shows 
 56 degrees in the shade. Frost and snow are 
 things of the past — things of the land we have 
 left behind. 
 
 Not having a portable altar, we are unable 
 to say Mass. There are more than seven hun- 
 dred persons in the steerage, mostly Italians 
 seeking " la bella patria " — their own lovely 
 homeland. I arrange with the captain to have 
 a service for them at 3 p. m. The second-class 
 saloon being too small, we hold the service 
 under an awning on the deck. Dressed in 
 cassock and with my rochet on — for the very 
 first time — I kneel upon the main hatch and 
 say aloud in Latin the Rosary and Litany of 
 the Blessed Virgin, which they all answer in 
 the same tongue. These people, I may re- 
 mark by the way, are all taught from child- 
 
FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES 113 
 
 hood to say those prayers in the language of 
 the Church. Prayers over, I address them a 
 few words in Italian, the season and the oc- 
 casion furnishing a theme. Exiles are we 
 from home, seeking a fatherland afar, and 
 One has come down from that fatherland 
 to raise us up and to lead us on. As we cross 
 the sea of life, not always calm and untroubled 
 as the one we sail to-day, we must pause from 
 time to time to lift up our eyes and fix them on 
 the eternal truths that shine like stars upon 
 our pathway. We must prepare for the advent 
 of the Sun of Justice, and from the lesser 
 lights turn our gaze longingly to the bright 
 morning Star that heralds His rising. Such 
 is the sum of what I said, but I must own that 
 it sounds much better in this English summary 
 than it did in such poor Italian as I could 
 
 muster. 
 
 * ♦ * 
 
 December 14. 
 At noon the log reads : 
 Lat. Long. Weather Remarks 
 
 41.34 56.28 Fresh gale: W. SW. 
 
 Dis. 317 SW. S. S. W., rough 
 
 quarterly sea. 
 Average Speed : 13.49 
 
114 FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES 
 
 We have run into a storm, or it has run in 
 upon us. *' Fresh gale " means a wind blow- 
 ing 50 or 60 miles an hour. But our ship is 
 very steady. Still there is a good deal of 
 motion — of that queer, all-round, uncertain, 
 miserable motion so apt to induce sea-sickness. 
 My companion, though he has been so seldom 
 to sea, is a better sailor than I. As for me, I 
 feel that I could very easily be quite sick if I 
 wanted to. But I don't want to, and up to a 
 certain point one can fight this sickness off. 
 My chief occupation all day is fighting off sea- 
 sickness. The wild winds, the wailing sea- 
 waves, the reeling, staggering ship keep telling 
 me it is of no use; that I had better crawl into 
 my berth and give up the uneven struggle. But 
 I hold out in spite of all of them. As I write 
 this in the steamer's library at 6 p. m. the bat- 
 tle is still on and the issue somewhat doubtful. 
 
 December 15. 
 
 The battle Is fought and won — thanks to 
 the abating of the storm and a calmer sea. 
 The weather to-day is fine and warm — 58 de- 
 grees in the shade. It was 68 degrees yester- 
 
FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES 115 
 
 day, and the mugginess of the atmosphere 
 made it unpleasant. For me, indeed, it is 
 never too pleasant on board ship. I have an 
 uneasy feeling that the most one can hope for 
 is a truce, and that the battle with sea-sickness 
 may have to be fought over again at any 
 moment. Under such circumstances writing is 
 not easy. 
 
 The sea, the deep mysterious sea, with its 
 changeful, elusive hues and its passionate 
 moods ! The dominant mood, I fancy, is 
 melancholy. The sea lifts up its voice only to 
 weep, and every sea-sound dies away in a sob 
 or a wail. When the crested waves break into 
 foam, what are the spray drops but the tears 
 of the salt sea? It not only yields a grave to 
 the countless millions that are buried beneath 
 its waters, but weeps for them ever, and chants 
 over them an unending requiem. And its lone- 
 liness is beyond words. Mid-ocean seems the 
 native home of solitude — a solitude that the 
 passing ship leaves unbroken. What a tale 
 this lonely, moaning sea could tell of the men 
 who have sunk into its depths, '' unknelled, un- 
 coffined, and unknown ! " But till it gives up 
 its dead, that tale shall not be told. 
 
116 FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES 
 
 December i6. 
 
 Late last evening I sat talking in the smok- 
 ing-room with a Protestant gentleman from 
 Minneapolis. Some years ago he visited the 
 Holy Land, and I was interested in the account 
 he gave of it. He does not seem to have been 
 much impressed by the country itself or its 
 sanctuaries. " The most beautiful sight I saw 
 in the Holy Land," he declared with evident 
 sincerity, '' was the face of a nun." It was not 
 the physical, but the spiritual beauty of the 
 face that struck him and imprinted itself upon 
 his memory. A beautiful soul beamed out 
 from it — a soul made beautiful by close com- 
 munion with God. " I will feed on God," says 
 Alexandrine in A Sister's Story, not knowing 
 very well at the moment what she means. But 
 she did feed on God, and became beautiful as 
 an angel, with that beauty which never can 
 fade. If we would be truly beautiful let us 
 feed on God the Uncreated Beauty, ever an- 
 cient and ever new. 
 
FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES 117 
 
 December 17. 
 
 How shall we feed on God? First by 
 prayer. Not as completely is the fish im- 
 mersed in the sea or the bird in the air as 
 the soul is in God, for He is everywhere, 
 and " in Him we live, and move, and are." 
 Every time we breathe we drink in the fresh 
 Every time we breathe we drink in the fresh 
 air to renew the life of the body; every time 
 we pray, if we pray aright, we draw down 
 the grace of God to give new life to the soul. 
 And as when a man ceases to breathe we know 
 that the life is gone out of him, so when a man 
 ceases to pray we may know that his soul is 
 dead within him. But there is another, a more 
 literal and yet more wondrous way of feeding 
 on God, and that is Holy Communion. "I 
 am the Bread of Life," and again, " He who 
 eats Me shall also live by Me." " As the hare 
 in winter," says St. Francis of Sales, " grows 
 white by feeding on the snow, so the soul grows 
 white by feeding on this Heavenly Manna." 
 The science may be at fault, but the thought is 
 true. " It is the boast of the Catholic Church," 
 observes Cardinal Newman, '* that she can 
 keep the young heart chaste, because she gives 
 
118 FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES 
 
 Jesus for food and Mary for nursing-mother." 
 I am quoting from memory, and do not vouch 
 for the exact accuracy of the quotation. 
 
 December i8. 
 Last night we passed the first two of the 
 Azores. These islands were discovered by 
 Portuguese navigators about the middle of the 
 fifteenth century, and still belong to Portugal. 
 They number nine in all, and have a popula- 
 tion of some 260,000. About noon we sight 
 Pico, the third of the group, and steam by it for 
 hours, at a distance of six or seven miles off. 
 Though we have sunshine at sea, it is raining 
 and misting ashore, and we fail to get a good 
 view. However, I have counted as many as 
 seven little villages where the snow-white cot- 
 tages form into clusters on the sloping shore. 
 These islands are of volcanic origin, and the 
 conical peak of an extinct volcano seems to 
 have given its name to the island we are pass- 
 ing by. It is visible for a moment or two, and 
 we catch just a glimpse of it as it peeps out of 
 a cloud. But it is a coy peak and hastes to 
 hide itself beneath its veil of mist. 
 
FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES 119 
 
 December 19. 
 
 I have learned that the mountain we passed 
 yesterday rises to a height of 7,460 feet, and 
 slopes to the sea at an angle of 40 degrees. 
 The bare head of it, uplifted above its bed of 
 cloud, and outlined against the blue sky, with 
 the sun shining full upon it, is still vividly be- 
 fore my imagination. No human eye wit- 
 nessed the volcanic upheavel which cast this 
 mountain peak up into the clouds out of the 
 bosom of the sea. But Captain Tillard of H. 
 M. S. " Sabrina " was eye-witness, in 181 1, of 
 the rise and extinction of an island in the 
 neighbourhood, which reached a height of 410 
 feet and was swallowed up by the sea after an 
 existence of 119 days. 
 
 For more than a week we have held our 
 lonely way on the ocean, no sail seen, no smoke 
 of steamer on the far horizon. The sea gulls 
 alone bear us company, whether the same birds 
 that followed us from the first, or fresh re- 
 lays from the pastures of the deep, no one can 
 tell. Birds of ocean, foster-children of the 
 wandering sea, their home is on the rolling 
 wave, their haunts no man may know. But 
 the same Providence that feeds the sparrows 
 
ISO FR0:^1 NEW YORK TO NAPLES 
 
 on the dry land gives food to these rovers on 
 the wilderness of waters. 
 
 December 20. 
 
 Our second Sunday at sea. I say the 
 Rosary and Litany in the second cabin, where 
 there are a number of Italians. I also give 
 a short instruction. A wee mite of a boy, with 
 the coal black hair and dark complexion of the 
 South, keeps eyeing me curiously the while, as 
 if wondering how one who looks so little like 
 a countryman can speak the language. 
 
 Ever since we got fairly away from the 
 American coast we have had summer weather, 
 the thermometer ranging from 50 to 70 de- 
 grees. The temperature of the water has been 
 even higher. One day it was y2 degrees ; this 
 morning it was 62. The Gulf Stream is here 
 at its widest. Only the short day can bring 
 home to us the fact that we are at the winter 
 solstice. 
 
FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES 121 
 
 December 21. 
 
 To-day the larger gulls that haunt the sea- 
 shore and nest in the rocks are abroad. They 
 are tokens that the land is not very far away. 
 Sometime to-night we reach Gibraltar, but 
 must lie outside till morning, for no ship can 
 enter the port of that grim fortress save in the 
 day. 
 
 Now that our ocean voyage is nearing its 
 end, our thoughts turn back to the loved ones 
 we have left behind. The uppermost feeling 
 in my own mind at the moment is gratitude, 
 first to God for all His goodness, and next to 
 the many friends, whether personally known to 
 me or not, who have so generously given of 
 their means and freed my mind from all anx- 
 iety on that score. I feel that I owe them 
 more than can be put in words. May the peace 
 of God and His blessing abide with them al- 
 ways, and may He, in His own way and in His 
 own good time, repay them a hundredfold. 
 
 This batch of notes was mailed at Gibraltar. 
 
FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES 
 II 
 
 December 22. 
 
 w^g^AST night we reached Gibraltar and 
 U^i dropped anchor in the bay. It was an 
 impressive sight when first we came in 
 view of land. On our right lay Morocco, on 
 our left Spain, and the lights on either shore 
 became visible about the same time. There are 
 not many spots even on this goodly globe of 
 ours where one can see two continents. The 
 night was lovely, the air almost balmy, the 
 stars were all out — ever so many more stars 
 than can be seen at home — and we stood long 
 on deck and gazed our fill at the splendour of 
 the night. Truly the skies declare the glory of 
 God and the firmament of heaven shows forth 
 the work of His hands. 
 
 This morning, about 8.30, most of the first- 
 class passengers landed in a tender. It was 
 good to feel one's foot once more on terra firma 
 122 
 
FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES 123 
 
 — and surely if there is firm footing on earth it 
 is the Rock of Gibraltar. The place I will not 
 attempt to describe ; that were quite beyond me. 
 Enough to say, and certainly not too much, 
 that the panorama which lies before one from 
 half-way up the mountain — we had not time to 
 go all the way — is one of the grandest that 
 anywhere unfolds itself to the eye of man. 
 And the city is full of interest. It is the meet- 
 ing-place of two continents, the free mart and 
 seaport of all nations, the most famous strong- 
 hold of the greatest empire under the sun. One 
 could wish if one had time, to study the vari- 
 ous types of humanity that gather here. By all 
 odds the most striking is the turban'd Moor, 
 with his swart features, his impassive face, his 
 picturesque costume, his gait and carriage not 
 lacking in dignity. We enter the principal 
 Catholic Church, rather a fine building, and are 
 happily able to assist at Mass. We see the 
 Bishop for a moment, an Italian Benedictine, a 
 native of Siena, a very genial and pleasant 
 man. By eleven we are back on board, and by 
 noon are steaming around Barracks Point and 
 entering the Mediterranean. 
 
124 FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES 
 
 December 27,. 
 
 We have made our best run — 348 knots from 
 noon yesterday till noon to-day. Our ship, 
 though a splendid seaboat, is not speedy, and 
 these two last trips has fallen behind her sched- 
 ule. An expert engineer, sent down especially 
 from London, has joined us at Gibraltar, and 
 we are now making better time. Smooth seas, 
 sunny skies, and a summer temperature have 
 made this latter part of our voyage extremely 
 pleasant, and yet we long for its end, or rather 
 we long to reach our goal. Several of the pas- 
 sengers left us at Gibraltar, others joined us 
 there. It is the way of life, which is all sum- 
 med up in a coming and a going and a passing 
 away. In truth we do but get glimpses of one 
 another as we pass through it. How short is 
 all that comes to an end ! " We have not here 
 a lasting city, but seek one which is to come." 
 
 December 24. 
 
 Sardinia's snowy mountain tops fringing the 
 southern sky. 
 
 The line comes back to me from school days, 
 as I gaze on those mountain-tops, bare and 
 
FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES 125 
 
 rugged, and snowless to-day. Sardinia is one 
 of the largest islands in the Mediterranean. It 
 has a population of more than 700,000. Once 
 one of the granaries of Carthage, and later of 
 imperial Rome, it is now in great part untilled 
 and barren. The natives are more like Span- 
 iards than Italians, though the island belongs to 
 Italy. In certain districts of the interior the 
 people speak the Latin tongue, which serves 
 to confute the received notion — never more 
 than a wretched half-truth, and not even as 
 much — that Latin is a dead language. What, 
 the language of the Church Catholic a dead 
 language ! Not while she lives, and the eternal 
 years of God are hers. 
 
 Christmas at sea; Christmas without the 
 wonted Christmas cheer; Christmas far from 
 home and friends. But so were Mary and 
 Joseph on that first Christmas night in Bethle- 
 hem, far from home and friends. And, please 
 God, we are going to land in Naples to-mor- 
 row in time to celebrate the Christ-Mass. 
 
126 FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES 
 
 December 25. 
 
 Before daylight this Christmas morning we 
 are on deck, where we linger most of the time 
 till our ship is docked in Naples at 10 a. m. 
 The approach to the city from the sea is very 
 grand. In the gray dawn we discern the light 
 on Ischia, which shows far out at sea. As day 
 creeps on, the outline of Vesuvius becomes 
 dimly visible through the morning haze. We 
 pass some islets, then Pozzuoli and other sub- 
 urbs of the queenly city. The sun is now full 
 risen ; 't is 
 
 Morn on the waters, and purple and bright 
 
 its light illuminates the lovely bay, gilds the 
 heights of Sant' Elmo and the roofs of Chiaia, 
 which curves beneath. The docks and shipping 
 lie further on, and beyond them rises the giant 
 form of dread Vesuvius. Little wonder that 
 lovers of panoramic scenery go into raptures 
 over this scene. If it is not '' See Naples and 
 die," at any rate it is " See Naples and never- 
 more forget." The words of the well-known 
 boat song come unbidden to one's lips: 
 
FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES I'ZI 
 
 O dolce Napoli ! 
 
 O suol beatol 
 Ove sorridere 
 
 Vuole il creato; 
 Tu sei r impero 
 Deir armonia; 
 Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia! 
 
 O lovely Naples ! 
 
 Favoured ground, 
 Where smiling Nature's 
 
 Charms abound ; 
 The native home 
 Of beauty thou : 
 Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia! 
 
 It takes a deal of ceremony to get a big ship 
 like ours docked, and a deal of patience to wait 
 on an empty stomach for the word to land. At 
 last we are ashore, through the custom-house, 
 and on our way to the Convent of the Soeurs 
 de L'Esperance, No. lo Via Santa Teresa, 
 Chiaia. We say Mass at 11.30 a. m. in the 
 Church of St. Teresa hard by, which, with the 
 adjoining monastery is in the hands of the Dis- 
 calced Carmelites. In the afternoon we take a 
 walk on the esplanade, which runs along the 
 
128 FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES 
 
 bay, visit the Aquarium, mount the hill to Sant' 
 Elmo, and from that commanding height gaze 
 upon the city, the bay, and the broken ranges of 
 mountains that stud the coast. The native 
 band of Chiaia, a great but inharmonious con- 
 cert of crowing roosters, awakens us next 
 morning long before the dawn, and by 10.30 
 we are getting our last glimpse of cloud-capped 
 Vesuvius from the window of the Rome ward- 
 bound train. 
 
 December 26. 
 
 The country through which we pass for the 
 first hour or two after quitting Naples does not 
 yield in beauty or fertility even to the plains of 
 Lombardy. Every foot of it is tilled; the 
 tillage is intensive as well as extensive. Here 
 the vine is trailed on great rows of trees, the 
 wide spaces between being now green with all 
 manner of vegetables, while the stately Italian 
 pine lends an added grace and dignity to the 
 landscape. As we go further north, the broad 
 plain narrows into valleys hemmed in by bare 
 and lofty mountains, with here a village cling- 
 ing to a rocky slope, and there a lone monastery 
 crowning a rugged crest. By noon we reach 
 
FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES 129 
 
 Casino, and presently admiring eyes are raised 
 to the giddy height where the great abbey of 
 that name, famed in story, lords it over all the 
 land. 
 
 As straws show how the wind blows, so very 
 little things serve oftentimes to bring racial and 
 national characteristics into clear relief. Thus, 
 over a plot of green in the public garden at 
 Chiaia, I read these formidable words of warn- 
 ing: I TRASGRESSORI SARANNO PU- 
 NITI A NORMA DI LEGGE, which may be 
 rendered: TRESPASSERS SHALL BE 
 PUNISHED TO THE LIMIT OF THE 
 LAW. We simply and bluntly say : Keep off 
 the grass! Again, a railway ticket, on which 
 with us are sometimes found the words. Not 
 transferable, bears here the blazoned legend, 
 La cessione e punita a termini di legge, that is 
 to say. The transfer is punishable in the precise 
 manner laid down in the law. On the other 
 hand, the attempt of some Italian railway offi- 
 cial to ape your bluff Englishman, in rendering 
 a notice graven in letters of bronze on the win- 
 dow of our carriage, E pericoloso sporgersi — 
 It is dangerous to put one's head out of the 
 window, comes to grief in this ludicrous fash- 
 
130 FROM NEW YORK TO NAPLES 
 
 ion, similarly cut in bronze, Don't stretch out ! 
 Ecco Roma ! We have finished our journey. 
 Monday afternoon (Dec. 29) I saw Cardinal 
 Gotti. This (Tuesday), evening I go on re- 
 treat at the Lazarist Mission House near 
 Montecitorio, where I made my retreat for the 
 priesthood twenty-five years ago. Sunday 
 (Jan. 3) is the day fixed for the consecration. 
 There is a hastening of events, as one chapter 
 of life draws to a close; and hastily I close this 
 last paragraph. 
 
FROM NAPLES TO CAIRO. 
 Wednesday, January 20, 1909. 
 
 day we came to Rome from Assisi. 
 At Terni I bought a lunch basket which con- 
 tained (i) a paper napkin, (2) a knife, (3) a 
 loaf of bread, (4) a cake of sweetbread, (5) 
 two slices of meat, (6) a couple of slices of 
 sausage, (7) salt, (8) a bit of chicken, (9) 
 toothpicks, (10) a bottle of wine, (11) an 
 orange, (12) a piece of cheese, (13) some wal- 
 nuts — all for two francs. I question whether 
 there is any other country in the world where 
 you could buy so much food for so little 
 money. 
 
 A facchino, or railway porter, at Naples, 
 plays us a scurvy trick. We hand him over 
 our luggage at the station, and tell him we 
 want to get a carriage to take us on board 
 the Regina Margherita. After a moment's 
 thought, he tells us it is but two minutes' walk, 
 and he will take us on board for four francs — 
 131 
 
132 FROM NAPLES TO CAIRO 
 
 which we think rather too much, but agree to 
 give. He leads us along dirty streets for at 
 least ten minutes, and fetches up finally at a 
 landing place, where he and sundry boatmen 
 engage in a war of words, to which vehement 
 gesticulations lend a sanguinary aspect — all cal- 
 culated to impress us with the difficulty of get- 
 ting to our steamer. Presently he motions us 
 to step into one of the boats, which we, in our 
 innocence, do in fear and trembling, while he 
 quickly makes off. But the boatman will not 
 budge till we have paid him four francs. Then 
 he quietly rows us round a ship, and up to a 
 dock, where, to our surprise and great disgust, 
 we behold our Regina Margherita cosily 
 moored! Two Neapolitan ragamuffins extort 
 further tribute for carrying our traps on board. 
 *' For ways that are dark and tricks that are — 
 vain " seems hardly the word, and I leave the 
 reader to finish the sentence. 
 
 Thursday, January 21. 
 
 We awake this morning in the Strait of 
 Messina, scene of the late frightful catastrophe. 
 On our right, but at some distance, is the city 
 
FROM NAPLES TO CAIRO 133 
 
 of that name, once fair as few cities are, now 
 a corpse, torn and disfigured, with the Hght of 
 life gone out of it. Farther up the Strait, on 
 our left, is ruined Reggio. At a first glance the 
 ruins are not seen, but closer scrutiny, with the 
 help of a pair of glasses, reveals them. One 
 very large building in the upper part of the 
 town is still on its feet. In many cases the 
 walls are left standing, mute witnesses of the 
 ruin within and without. I cannot discern a 
 single church tower or steeple in all the 
 stricken city. By ten o'clock we are off Cape 
 Spartivento (Split-the-wind), the toe of the 
 Italian boot, and by twelve the last of the tall 
 hills of Southern Italy has faded away on the 
 horizon. 
 
 Great is Italian reverence for that which has 
 been and is, an admirable sentiment in its way, 
 but one which tends to conserve" in being 
 things that are and ought not to be. For ex- 
 ample. I was awakened this morning at five 
 o'clock by a rattling noise which I took to be 
 due to some iron fastening having become 
 loose. I groped my way on deck, but could see 
 nothing. Meeting one of the stewards, I asked 
 him what made the noise, " E il temone — 
 it is the steering-gear," he made answer, and 
 
134 FROM NAPLES TO CAIRO 
 
 suggested that I could get a room on the lower 
 deck where the noise would not be heard. 
 Going on deck after daylight I found the 
 clatter was caused by a bolt, which kept the 
 rod of the steering-gear in place, having too 
 much play. The ship's smith was busied hard 
 by with mending a windlass, and I drew his at- 
 tention to the matter. He eyed me in mild 
 wonderment, and with a characteristic shrug 
 of the shoulders, said, '' E sempre stato cosi — 
 It has always been like that." So there you 
 are! Hundreds upon hundreds of passengers 
 have been robbed of their sleep by the clatter 
 of this bolt, but what of that? The nuisance 
 must go unabated, because — E sempre stato 
 cosi! 
 
 P. S. I must set on record the fact that 
 the thing has since been remedied : for the 
 future, passengers in stateroom No — , of the 
 Regina Margherita may rest in peace. 
 
 Friday, January 22. 
 
 All the afternoon we are chased by a thun- 
 derstorm, but manage to keep ahead of it. We 
 do, however, get the wind that goes with it, 
 and there is a deal of motion in the ship, and 
 
FROM NAPLES TO CAIRO 136 
 
 a deal of squeamishness in certain stomachs. 
 By eight o'clock we have left the storm be- 
 hind, and by ten have abeam the light on a 
 little island ofif Crete, or Candia, as it is also 
 called. We think of St. Paul and the hard- 
 ships he endured along this coast while he was 
 on his way to Rome. The Cretans of his time 
 seem to have been a pretty bad lot, for he 
 cites " a prophet of their own " as saying that 
 they were " always liars, wicked brutes, lazy 
 bellies," and vouches for the truth of the in- 
 dictment. But there must have been some 
 good ones among them, for he made many con- 
 verts there, and gave his beloved disciple Titus 
 to be their first Bishop. 
 
 Saturday, January 23. 
 
 I've had an interesting talk with two Fran- 
 ciscan Fathers, one the Visitor-General of the 
 Order, the other the well-known American au- 
 thor, Paschal Robinson. We are now within 
 ten hours' sail of Egypt — Egypt old in story, of 
 which the Sphinx is fitting emblem, land of 
 many riddles yet unsolved. We shall reach 
 there before dawn to-morrow. 
 
136 FROM NAPLES TO CAIRO 
 
 Wednesday, January 2y. 
 
 Back on board the Regina Margherita, and 
 on the way to Jaffa (Joppa). Early Sunday 
 morning we land at Alexandria, say Mass in 
 the Franciscan Church there, and at ii a. m. 
 take the train for Cairo, which we reach 
 some three hours later. The distance is about 
 140 miles. We are traversing perhaps the 
 most fertile tract of country in the world, 
 along the delta of the Nile. It is one vast 
 plain as far as the eye can see, from edge 
 to edge of the horizon, green with growing 
 crops of wheat and cotton. On all sides are 
 groves of acacias and lines of stately palm, 
 while long caravans of camels, passing parallel 
 to the line of railway, lend an added pictur- 
 esqueness to the landscape. Egypt, to the in- 
 tellect a land of mystery, is to the eye a land 
 of beauty — land of the evergreen. And yet 
 one misses the snow-capped mountains which 
 make of Italy, and still more of Switzerland, 
 a fairyland of romance. Here it is always 
 summer, and the crops keep growing perenni- 
 ally; as many as four crops are raised in the 
 year. Little rain falls, and the tiller of the 
 soil would wish it were less than that little, 
 
FROM NAPLES TO CAIRO 137 
 
 for the waters of the Nile irrigate the land, 
 and it is the hot sun out of a cloudless sky that 
 favours growth. I have said the tiller of the 
 soil when I should have rather said the owner, 
 who is generally a Jew or a Turk. Your Arab 
 Fellah gets his pittance of four piastres (about 
 twenty cents) a day, and is better off with that 
 than he was before the English came in, when 
 the Khedive sent his servants to take heavy 
 toll of the ripened crops. 
 
 The Arab subdued the Copt, lineal descen- 
 dant of the ancient Egyptians, and was in turn 
 subdued by the Turk. He is a picturesque 
 figure, with his white turban or red fez, his 
 flowing robes, his sandalled, oftentimes bare, 
 feet. The women are veiled up to the eyes, 
 with a curious covering on the nose, which 
 seems to serve no particular purpose and is 
 certainly not an ornament. The young of the 
 male sex are for the most part of a pleasing 
 appearance. But with advancing years the 
 features of these people take on a hard and 
 somewhat repulsive look, half of submission, 
 half of hopelessness, not unlike that which one 
 sees in the eyes of that much abused beast of 
 burden, the ass, which for six decades of cen- 
 turies has borne the whips and scorns of his 
 
188 FROM NAPLES TO CAIRO 
 
 master, man. It is the fatalism of the race 
 that finds expression in that look — the feeling 
 that it is of no use kicking against the pricks 
 of a relentless destiny. And so the Arab goes 
 his way, bearing the burden of life sadly 
 but submissively. His whole philosophy is 
 summed up in the one word malesh (a as in 
 " ma," e as in " edge," both vowels long drawn 
 out,) which is forever on his lips : " It doesn't 
 matter " — nothing matters in a world where 
 so much is amiss and so little can be mended. 
 We spend two days in Cairo, during which 
 we visit Matarieh, Old Cairo, the citadel and 
 famous mosque of alabaster, the museum with 
 its mummies, and the pyramids. At Matarieh 
 is the well of sweet water which gushed forth, 
 tradition has it, when the Holy Family came 
 into Egypt, and the sycamore which gave them 
 shelter. The present tree is more than three 
 hundred years old. At Old Cairo is shown the 
 site of the cottage in which dwelt the Holy 
 Family. It is in the crypt of an ancient basilica, 
 the style of which bespeaks the fifth or sixth 
 century. The place is in the hands of the Schis- 
 matical Copts; it was the daughter of the 
 Coptic priest who unlocked the door for us. 
 In Old Cairo one sees the Arab in the primeval 
 
FROM NAPLES TO CAIRO 1S9 
 
 environment of the unchanging East. All is 
 primitive here. Bedouin and Jew, camel, 
 donkey, and goat move along pell-mell, jos- 
 tling one another in the narrow, crooked, foul- 
 smelling streets. I would not advise a visit to 
 the market-place just before dinner — it might 
 spoil one's appetite. There is some very ancient 
 dirt in Old Cairo — and some that is not so an- 
 cient. Newman says somewhere that no dirt 
 is immortal, but he is speaking of another sort 
 of dirt, and, anyhow, he never set foot in this 
 Egyptian town, laved but washed not by the 
 waters of the Nile. 
 
 In striking contrast to the lowly ass, is that 
 other beast of burden, the lordly camel. With 
 what lofty disdain it sniffs the air as it looks 
 down upon its mean environment — pigmy man 
 included. It is a proud creature — proud even 
 of the hump on its back. It has been tamed 
 by man after a fashion, but not subdued, and 
 its eyes belie the obedience that it outwardly 
 yields to its puny master. 
 
 Rome, March 9, 1909. 
 
 We returned from the East a couple of 
 weeks ago, and are now getting ready to leave 
 
140 FROM NAPLES TO CAIRO 
 
 for home. We are to sail from Southampton 
 for New York on the 31st. Of our visit to the 
 Holy Land I write nothing now; I may later, 
 but life is uncertain. Of Egypt I might have 
 written more, but my notes are lost, as ill luck 
 would have it, and I write from memory. 
 Had not those notes been lost — in some such 
 way we used to put it in boyhood's days when 
 spinning sgialachan by the fireside — this letter 
 had been longer. 
 
m 
 
 THROUGH SPAIN. 
 
 WO things led me to leave the " Sax- 
 onia" at Gibraltar, and journey 
 through the Spanish peninsula. I 
 wanted to go to Lourdes, and I wanted to 
 drink in the memories of St. Teresa, Spain's 
 chief est glory, at the fountain-head. At 
 Algeciras, right across from Gibraltar, I set 
 foot for the first time on the soil of Spain. The 
 train for Ronda was waiting, and I stepped 
 on board. The railway passes through 
 a wild, mountainous region, rich in traces 
 of the Moorish occupation. At Ronda I 
 said Mass in the chapel of the Little Sis- 
 ters of the Poor. One of the Sisters was 
 from Dumfries, in Scotland, and one from our 
 own Quebec. I asked them how they came to 
 be in Ronda, and they said they were like 
 soldiers and had to go where they were sent. 
 The Little Sisters have their houses and 
 do their Christlike work in many parts of 
 the world. Wherever the Catholic Church 
 141 
 
142 THROUGH SPAIN 
 
 is, where the Cross of Christ points heaven- 
 ward, there they are at home. 
 
 Andalusia comprises the four old Moorish 
 
 Kingdoms of Jaen, Seville, Granada, and 
 
 Cordova. It is the most fascinating province 
 
 of Spain. The scenic beauty of mountain 
 
 and valley soothes the mind, while the soft 
 
 languorous climate steeps the senses in repose. 
 
 To the voluptuous Mohammedan Andalusia 
 
 was well worth fighting for. And long he 
 
 fought and fiercely ere he gave it back finally 
 
 to the sons of Spain. 
 
 * * * 
 
 The region from Ronda to Seville is wonder- 
 fully fertile. So indeed is nearly the whole of 
 Spain — land of the vine and the olive, land of 
 corn and wheat, land of clear blue skies and 
 brilliant sun. Seville, on the banks of the 
 Guadalquiver, is a city of great interest, pos- 
 sessing a wealth of historical associations. 
 It has passed through many vicissitudes from 
 the time of the Romans down. The long dom- 
 ination of the Moors has stamped an oriental 
 character upon it. I said Mass at the Convent 
 
THROUGH SPAIN 14S 
 
 of the Institute of the Blessed Virgin Mary, 
 founded by the famous Mary Ward. The 
 Sisters are commonly known as the Loreto 
 Nuns, and in Spain as " Las Madres Ir- 
 landesas." They teach a day school in Seville, 
 and have a boarding school outside the city. I 
 met one who said she was connected by ties of 
 kinship with the family of St. Teresa. She 
 wrote for me in Spanish a saying of the saint, 
 which shows she was human enough to hate 
 Seville because it was so hot : " Whoever 
 suffers the heat of Seville with patience has 
 done penance enough." It seems a pity the 
 human element should have been almost wholly 
 eliminated from our Lives of the Saints. The 
 run of those that have come down to us, es- 
 pecially from mediaeval times, are little more 
 than an abstract of the heroic virtues practised 
 by the saints and the miracles performed by 
 them. The servants of God are set up on a 
 pedestal so high and so far away that we feel 
 as if we could never hope to get near to them 
 at all. And yet they had their human side, to 
 us intensely interesting, for, to apply in a good 
 sense what was first written disparagingly. 
 
 One touch of nature makes the whole world kin. 
 
144 THROUGH SPAIN 
 
 At Seville I visited the monastery of Dis- 
 calced Carmelites founded by St. Teresa. The 
 present one was built by St. John of the Cross 
 in a different locality from that of the original 
 monastery, because the situation of this latter 
 one was found to be unhealthy. Over the 
 grille is a wooden cross erected by St. John, 
 the faithful co-worker of St. Teresa, a man of 
 lofty spirit kindred to her own. I was shown 
 an autograph letter of his, bearing date March 
 28, 1586. The handwriting is very legible. 
 Of St. Teresa's own relics there are the fol- 
 lowing: (i) an autograph letter, signed 
 *' Teresa of Jesus," the name being spelled 
 as written, not " Theresa," which follows the 
 French ** Therese; " (2) a bit of the hair shirt 
 worn by the saint; (3) a medicine bottle used 
 by her in her last illness — which shows her to 
 have been human to the end ; (4) a large white 
 woolen mantle that she wore, the mantle of 
 her Order; (5) one of her slippers, now so 
 richly embroidered that the original cannot be 
 seen; (6) last and far the most signal relic of 
 all, the autograph original of the Interior 
 Castle, or Castle of the Soul, perhaps her 
 greatest work. The handwriting is somewhat 
 
THROUGH SPAIN 145 
 
 peculiar, and the text not easily read, because 
 in many cases the syllables are separated. 
 This priceless autograph is in an excellent state 
 of preservation, bound with heavy plates of 
 gold. It came into possession of the monas- 
 tery, the nuns told me, through one of the first 
 novices of the community, her father, a gentle- 
 man of high social standing, having received 
 it from a Carmelite priest who was intimate 
 in life with St. Teresa. 
 
 The Father Prior of the Discalced Carmel- 
 ites at Seville, who speaks English well, having 
 spent some years in England as a missionary, 
 gave me a story handed down by tradition in 
 the Carmelite Order. It shows at once the 
 terms of loving familiarity on which St. Teresa 
 lived with Our Lord and her ready wit. The 
 convent at Burgos, in the north of Spain, was 
 her last foundation. She feared to go there in 
 mid-winter because of the cold, but Our Lord 
 reminded her that He was the source of all 
 warmth. The roads being all but impassable, 
 she and her companions suffered great hard- 
 ships, and at one place were nearly drowned in 
 
146 THROUGH SPAIN 
 
 the waters of a stream that had overflowed its 
 banks. Gently complaining to her Divine 
 Spouse, she was told that these were favours 
 He reserved for His friends. " That,'' she re- 
 joined, " is why your friends are so few ! " 
 " She was very saucy with Him," said an Irish 
 nun at Madrid, on my reciting this story. 
 The playful sally finds its proper setting and 
 balance in those other words of the saint that 
 we read in her Foundations, ch. xxxi : *' O 
 my Lord, how true it is that you repay with a 
 cross those who do you a service! But what 
 an inestimable treasure that cross is to those 
 who truly love you, were it but given them at 
 once to realize its value ! And yet, they would 
 not have sought to possess themselves of the 
 treasure, the price to be paid seeming at the 
 moment too great." So hard is it for us to 
 bear what presses here and now upon us, even 
 when we are quite persuaded that every trial 
 is a crucible for the minting of heaven's gold. 
 * * * 
 
 I did but pass through Madrid on my way 
 to Avila. The city is modern, having none of 
 the quaintness of other Spanish towns. The 
 
THROUGH SPAIN 147 
 
 Loreto Nuns have a convent and school in the 
 outskirts. Even the Httle tots must speak Eng- 
 lish. A course at this convent is greatly de- 
 sired for their daughters by Spanish mothers 
 since Princess Victoria came to share v^ith 
 Alfonso the throne of Spain. 
 
 About midway between Madrid and Avila, 
 with great ridges of rock above and around it. 
 stands the palace of the Escorial, built by 
 Philip the Second, husband of Mary Tudor. 
 It compares with the pyramids of Egypt in 
 size and solidity. It is at once a palace, a 
 monastery, a church, and a mausoleum. There 
 are not in all the world more gorgeous tombs 
 than those that here enclose the ashes of the 
 kings and queens of Spain. In the treasury of 
 the monastery I saw the little statue of the 
 Blessed Virgin before which Pope St. Pius V 
 prayed during the battle of Lepanto. Queen 
 Elizabeth II has decked it with a crown of 
 brilliants. In the library, among manuscripts 
 of priceless value, are four of the autograph 
 writings of St. Teresa, the Book of the Foun- 
 dations, the Manner of Visiting Convents, the 
 
148 THROUGH SPAIN 
 
 Way of Perfection, and the Life by herself. 
 All these were collected, not without difficulty, 
 by the royal founder of the Escorial, who died 
 sixteen years after St. Teresa, in 1598. 
 * * * 
 
 Avila, famed evermore as the birthplace 
 and home of St. Teresa, is situated in the 
 centre of the province of that name, west of 
 Segovia and south of Valladolid. The hill on 
 which it stands rises out of an undulating coun- 
 try to the north, and, on the south, overlooks 
 a broad plain which stretches away almost as 
 far as the eye can see to a range of mountains 
 known as the Sierras of Avila. The waters 
 of the Adaja river bathe the foot of the cliffs 
 to the west. On the southwestern slope of the 
 hill, facing the wide extent of meadow land and 
 the distant mountains, stands the old home 
 of St. Teresa, enclosed within a Dominican 
 monastery. Here one is showm the room 
 where she was born, now a chapel in which the 
 Blessed Sacrament is kept. Here also, but 
 some feet under the ground — for old things 
 have a way of sinking into the earth — , is the 
 little garden where, a child of seven, she played 
 
THROUGH SPAIN 149 
 
 at being a nun, and with her brother, four 
 years her senior planned to seek the crown of 
 martyrdom among the Moors. '' We settled," 
 she tells us, ''to go together to the country of 
 the Moors, begging our way there for the love 
 of God, that we might be beheaded there." 
 " I ran away," was the naive excuse precocious 
 piety gave her mother, '' because I wanted to 
 see God, and one cannot do that without 
 dying." 
 
 * * * 
 
 Avila is little changed since Teresa de 
 Ahumada and Rodriquez de Cepeda stole 
 softly along its cobbled streets and left its lofty 
 portals behind, in the gray dawn of that sum- 
 mer's day, some four hundred years ago. The 
 stones, since worn by many feet, are the same 
 that they trod; the stout walls that defied 
 Moorish assault still look proudly down upon 
 the stranger that enters at the gate. Out- 
 side the walls are two religious houses 
 which are fragrant with the memories of St. 
 Teresa. One is the Convent of St. Joseph, the 
 other the Monastery of the Incarnation. The 
 latter stands on a hill a few hundred yards to 
 
150 THROUGH SPAIN 
 
 the north of the town. There Teresa first 
 made her vows, and there she Hved for twenty- 
 seven years, three of which she was Prioress. 
 Among her reHcs there are ( i ) a Httle water 
 jug, (2) a crucifix borne by her when she w^ent 
 forth to found new convents, (3) the key of 
 her cell, (4) a document concerning the dowTy 
 of a religious, signed by the saint and the four 
 nuns who established with her the new foun- 
 dation. I sat in the chair, by the side of the 
 grille, where St. Peter of Alcantara and St 
 Francis Borgia conversed with her on spiritual 
 subjects. It was there that a nun, happening 
 along one day, found herself and St. John of 
 the Cross raised above the ground in an ecstasy 
 of contemplation. The quick-witted Teresa 
 put it all on her companion. *' See," she said, 
 " what comes of talking with Father John ! " 
 * * * 
 
 St. Joseph's of Avila, now known as the 
 Convent of St. Teresa, is on the east side, just 
 outside the walls, but within the town limits. 
 It was the saint's first foundation, the be- 
 ginning of the Reform. Here are several 
 relics, among others a tambourine on which 
 
THROUGH SPAIN 151 
 
 the saint used to play. Her body lies in- 
 corrupt at Alba de Tormes, where she 
 died. The morning I went to say Mass at St. 
 Joseph's, I was accompanied by two English 
 ladies, a mother and daughter, Anglicans both, 
 very High Church, and very much interested 
 in all that related to St. Teresa. They knelt 
 to the Blessed Sacrament on entering, and as- 
 sisted at Mass with every mark of devotion. 
 We afterwards spoke with the nuns at the 
 grating. They showed us the relics of their 
 holy foundress, and bade us be sure to visit 
 the chapel built by her in connection with her 
 first foundation. I had told the mother the 
 night before of the sweet odor I perceived 
 when, at the Escorial, the Augustinian Father 
 had opened the glass case that contained the 
 four autograph writings of St. Teresa. Just as 
 we entered the chapel I felt the same sweet 
 odor, and asked the mother if she perceived it. 
 ''Yes," she said, "but it is a very elusive 
 odor." A nun at Seville had spoken to me of 
 the odor exhaled by the relics of the saint, 
 and had said that some perceived it but others 
 didn't, and that even to the same person 
 it was perceptible at times, at other times 
 
152 THROUGH SPAIN 
 
 not. It seemed to me something like the odor 
 of incense, and yet I am quite sure it was not 
 that. I was much impressed with the fact that 
 it was the self-same odor I perceived in those 
 two widely distant places. 
 * * * 
 
 At the hotel in Avila I met an American 
 lady who had not visited her native land in five 
 years. She was so taken with Europe, she 
 said, that she thought she should never cross 
 the Atlantic again. Perhaps the recent terrible 
 happenings may have made her change her 
 mind. The conversation turning on St. Te- 
 resa, I said I looked upon her as being, after 
 the Blessed Virgin, the greatest woman saint 
 that ever lived. My American friend believed 
 she must yield the palm to St. Catherine of 
 Siena. And truly the latter may contest the 
 palm in the outer world of action. But I was 
 thinking rather of the inner world of the 
 spirit, where piety rears " a building 
 of God, a house not made with hands.'' 
 No one has thrown clearer or more 
 copious light upon the things of that inner 
 world than the author of " The Way of 
 
THROUGH SPAIN 153 
 
 Perfection" and "The Castle of the Soul." 
 For the rest, " star differs from star in bright- 
 ness," and it is not for us, short-sighted and 
 dim of vision as we are, to say which shines 
 with the greatest lustre. Stars there are, too, 
 in the firmament of the Church that have never 
 swum into our ken. We shall see them when 
 we have passed hence, even as those who pass 
 to the other side of the globe behold the South- 
 ern Cross. — Mrs. Hemans's lines on that bril- 
 liant constellation come to one unbidden : they 
 are put in the mouth of some son or daughter 
 of Spain: 
 
 Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the main 
 My fathers unfolded the ensign of Spain. 
 And planted their faith in the regions that see 
 Its unperishing symbol emblazoned in thee. 
 
 Shine on — my own land is a far distant spot, 
 And the stars of thy sphere can enlighten it 
 
 not, 
 And the eyes that I love, though e'en now they 
 
 may be 
 
 O'er the firmament wandering, can gaze not 
 
 on thee ! 
 
 * * * 
 
154 THROUGH SPAIN 
 
 On leaving Avila I visited Valladolid. To 
 me the most interesting place there was the 
 Scots College, once a home of the Jesuits and 
 their house of studies in the days of the great 
 Suarez. Here many of the men who kept the 
 torch of faith burning in the Scottish High- 
 lands during the dark night of persecution re- 
 ceived their education for the priesthood. The 
 Very Reverend Alexander MacDonald, V. G., 
 who died at Mabon, Cape Breton, in 1865, left 
 Valladolid for Lismore, Scotland, in 18 16, as 
 the college records bear witness. It was from 
 him I got in baptism the light of faith. 
 * * * 
 
 I slept at San Sebastian on my way to 
 Lourdes. Of my visit to that famous shrine I 
 write elsewhere. 
 
LOURDES REVISITED. 
 
 Victoria, B. C, August, 1914. 
 
 visited Lourdes again in May of the 
 present year. Much water had passed 
 under the old stone bridge that spans 
 the Gave since last I gazed on that swirling 
 stream, and listened to the hoarse music of its 
 voice. Lourdes has grown a great deal in 
 these fourteen years. The old town has wid- 
 ened its bounds on the right bank of the river, 
 and on the left the low meadow land is covered 
 with shops and hotels. These, indeed, may be 
 said to make up the town. In the shops, as I 
 also noted when last I was there, the wares 
 are almost wholly of a devotional character — 
 a fact that gave rise to the following incident. 
 The joke that gives it point is at my own ex- 
 pense. 
 
 I left my soap at Saint Sebastian, the last 
 
 town in Spain ere you cross into France. 
 
 It may be needful to tell the reader that the 
 
 traveller in Europe has to carry his own soap. 
 
 155 
 
156 LOURDES REVISITED 
 
 I wanted to bu}^ that necessary article in 
 Lourdes, but did not know where to get it. 
 The stores that Hned the streets on either side 
 seemed to offer nothing but beads, medals, stat- 
 ues, etc. What was worse, I could not for the 
 life of me recall the French word for soap. I 
 tried to get at it through the Italian '* sapone." 
 Cutting off the final vowel, I entered the near- 
 est store, and boldly asked for " sapon." The 
 salesmaid at first looked puzzled. But on my 
 repeating the order, her face broke into a 
 smile of comprehension. Quickly she sped to 
 a corner of the store, and thence brought me 
 a tiny statue of St. Paul! '' Sapon," no doubt, 
 sounded more like " Saint Pol " than like the 
 elusive " savon " that I had tried in vain to get 
 hold of. Going into another shop, where a win- 
 dow bore the legend " English and German 
 spoken," I asked for soap. They told me the 
 girl who was to wait on English-speaking cus- 
 tomers had not yet joined the staff. I inquired 
 in Italian if they knew that language, and to 
 my great relief was answered in the affirma- 
 tive, and directed to a little shop down a near 
 street, where I bought an excellent piece of 
 soap that is still in my possession. 
 
 Man has wrought many changes in Lourdes. 
 
LOURDES REVISITED 157 
 
 Only the works of God remain unchanged. 
 The Gave flows merrily on, singing its way to 
 the sea. Round about are the eternal hills, 
 which change not. The grotto in the rocks of 
 Massabielle still looks out over the hurrying 
 river, even as Our Lady, from her quiet niche, 
 smiles down upon the ever flowing and ebbing 
 multitude at her feet. How mighty has been 
 that tide of pilgrimage since last I knelt before 
 the statue of Our Lady there! Day by day, 
 month by month, year by year, it keeps re- 
 newing itself, flowing ever onward like the 
 leaping waters of the Gave. 
 
 I reached Lourdes on the eve of Saturday, 
 May 10, and stayed there over Sunday. The 
 great Swiss national pilgrimage was there, in 
 eight trains; a pilgrimage from Metz in two 
 trains ; a mixed pilgrimage from Strassburg, in 
 two trains; the seventeenth pilgrimage from 
 Namur in three trains; the ninth national 
 Bavarian pilgrimage in two trains; and the 
 ninth Austrian, also in two trains. There were 
 in all some fifteen thousand pilgrims, of 
 many nations and many tongues. But one was 
 the faith that drew them thither; one the de- 
 votion. And one was the hymn they sang in 
 unison in the marvellous torchlight procession 
 
158 LOURDES REVISITED 
 
 that night. I stood watching it as it wound its 
 way down the great oval pathway through the 
 meadow of Lourdes. The spire of the stately 
 basilica that stands over the Grotto, the grand 
 fa9ade, and the Church of the Rosary beneath, 
 were all ablaze. Then ten thousand pilgrims, 
 a very torrent of moving lights, poured into 
 the pathway, circled slowly round it, sway- 
 ing and singing as they passed along. The 
 sounds that rose upon the night air, under the 
 listening stars, were as the voices of the sea. 
 
 A thought that saddens comes to me as I 
 write these words, after three short months. 
 Many, many of the men who walked side by 
 side in that procession have ere now met face 
 to face on European battlefields. Man is part 
 beast, and part angel. The angel is of God, 
 the beast of the earth, earthy. And the beast 
 that is in man, true to its nature, fights its fel- 
 lows; the angel can but weep over the fallen 
 and the slain. 
 
 W^hat a sight that was of sick and suffering 
 humanity before the statue of Our Lady in 
 the rocks of Massabielle! It seemed as if all 
 the ills that poor human flesh is heir to were 
 brought together there. One had not the heart 
 
LOURDES REVISITED 159 
 
 to ask favours for oneself, so piteous was the 
 spectacle of so much misery unrelieved. For 
 out of the thousands that yearly seek a cure at 
 Lourdes but few are made whole. Yet all are 
 renewed in spirit, and strengthened to bear 
 their ailments with Christian resignation. It 
 is not that they want faith; it is rather that 
 God does not will to free even those who have 
 faith from all evil here below. " It is ap- 
 pointed unto man once to die." Through many 
 tribulations, through the gates of death itself, 
 we must enter into the Kingdom of God, King- 
 dom of endless ages, whereon, as St. Augus- 
 tine so beautifully expresses it, " sits the un- 
 troubled light, and the peace of God that 
 passeth all understanding." Meanwhile in 
 patience we shall possess our souls. 
 
 A year ago one came to Lourdes, a girl from 
 a town in France, sick beyond all human hope 
 of recovery. She had a complication of mala- 
 dies, including consumption in its last stage. 
 Her doctor, an unbeliever, deemed it madness 
 in her to undertake the long journey. But go 
 she would. He told her, if she were cured, he 
 himself would go with her next year to 
 Lourdes. They were both of them there the 
 
160 LOURDES REVISITED 
 
 Sunday I was there — she to thank Our Lady 
 for the wondrous favour, he to ponder upon 
 the superhuman power that wrought it, and to 
 find, let us hope, healing and peace for his soul. 
 
 In a corner of France, amid the foothills and 
 under the shadow of the Pyrenees, Lourdes lies 
 sheltered with its holy shrine. Afar it lies 
 from the madding strife that now ravages and 
 reddens with blood many a fair field that was 
 white unto harvest. Let us pray Our Lady 
 that the war may soon be over — that He who 
 chid the wild waves on the sea of Galilee may 
 now stay the fierce onset of angry passions, 
 and bring a great calm. 
 
A FEW MORE STRAY LEAVES AND 
 TRACES. 
 
 m 
 
 HE passage from New York to Gib- 
 raltar took twelve days. The " Sax- 
 onia " is slow, but sure and steady. 
 There was little sea-sickness, and less cause 
 for it, but small-pox broke out in the steer- 
 age our first day at sea. The child — for a 
 child it was that showed the dread symptoms 
 — was at once placed in the isolation hospital. 
 We all had to be vaccinated, and the " Sax- 
 onia " steamed into the harbour of Funchal, 
 Madeira, flying the yellow-jack. There was, 
 however, little fear of infection among our 
 fellow-passengers in the first cabin, as became 
 apparent the night before we made port. 
 There was a dance on the deck, which we 
 were all invited to join. Conspicuous on the 
 list of dances that lay before each passenger 
 as we sat down that evening to the dinner table 
 was " the vaccination waltz ! " Next morning 
 a pathetic little wooden box, roughly carpen- 
 tered, was landed at Madeira. It contained the 
 161 
 
162 A FEW MORE STRAY 
 
 remains of the little child which had died in 
 port — not of small-pox, which had turned out 
 after all to be chicken-pox — but of two hard- 
 boiled eggs administered by a fond mother dur- 
 ing convalescence. So at least the story ran on 
 board ship, though I fancy it was just made up 
 to free us the more completely from appre- 
 hension. 
 
 Madeira is one of the loveliest islands of 
 the sea. The waters around it are of the deep- 
 est blue, and its sloping fields of the richest ver- 
 dure. Funchal, the capital city, is on the 
 shores of a winding bay. The houses spot- 
 lessly white, the roofs red-tiled, form a pleas- 
 ing contrast of colour with the green of the 
 fields and the tropical trees around about them. 
 Madeira belongs to Portugal. The inhabitants 
 are almost all of them Catholics, and very 
 devout. The storm of persecution that so lately 
 burst over the mother country has spared this 
 distant daughter in her sea-girt home. 
 
 Quitting the boat at Gibraltar, and passing 
 by rail through Spain and the south of France, 
 I reached Rome before the middle of May. 
 
LEAVES AND TRACES 163 
 
 Rome is greatly changed since I knew it first, 
 and changed, I am free to own, for the better. 
 New streets have been opened, old ones 
 straightened and widened, and all the streets 
 are fairly well kept. The city has taken over 
 the magnificent Villa Borghese, and turned it 
 into a park, to which access is given, out of the 
 very heart of Rome, from piazza Barberini, 
 along a broad highway, across the Pincian Hill. 
 The deep valley beyond is bridged by a lofty 
 embankment. No city is more favoured than 
 Rome in its parks and fountains. 
 
 Rome is greatly changed, too, spiritually, 
 and for the better. There is more of devotion 
 in the churches ; more of respect, or at least of 
 outward respect, for the pilgrim in the streets. 
 In Rome ecclesiastical things are pretty much 
 as they have always been. There is a saying 
 familiar to the theologian, Comnmnia vilescunt 
 — common things are held uncommonly cheap. 
 What so common as the priest in Rome! 
 None so poor as to do him reverence. Even a 
 bishop on occasion does not fare much better. 
 Apropos of this I have been told a story, which 
 to quote the well-worn Italian saying, Se non 
 
164 A FEW MORE STRAY 
 
 e vero, e hen trovato — if not true, is a clever 
 take-off, and may serve to point a moral. 
 
 Last winter there was a grand function in 
 the Sixtine Chapel. The Holy Father was 
 there, and the place was packed with people. 
 They kept pressing forward in their eagerness 
 to get near the Pope. At last the papal guard 
 turned their backs to the multitude, and held 
 them there. A belated Cardinal tried to force- 
 his way through, but couldn't. Taking one of 
 the guard by the shoulder, he told him who he 
 was and that he had to get by. '' Oh, pardon 
 me, your Eminence," cried the soldier, greatly 
 taken aback, '' I thought you were only a 
 Bishop ! " 
 
 The public consistory of May the 28th, 
 viewed simply as a pageant, was well worth 
 waiting for. Cardinals and bishops, in their 
 scarlet and purple robes, lined the front seats, 
 and the elect Cardinals, in gorgeous panoply, 
 brought up the rear of a long procession. The 
 ambassadors to the Holy See and the heads 
 of the old noble families of Rome, were con- 
 spicuous in seats specially reserved for them. 
 
LEAVES AND TRACES 165 
 
 But what struck one as without parallel in so 
 august an assemblage was this singular cir- 
 cumstance : a peasant from Riese sat in the 
 throne of Peter, and three other peasants from 
 Riese, two sisters and a niece, who bore about 
 them all the marks of their peasant ancestry, 
 occupied the place of honour in a tribune hard 
 by. It was the apotheosis of democracy. 
 The like had never been seen at the Papal 
 Court, at least since the swineherd Sixtus, the 
 fifth of that name, refused to receive, when 
 dressed as a fine lady, the mother whom he 
 afterwards welcomed when she came back to 
 him in her peasant costume. 
 
 It is not easy to gain admittance to a papal 
 consistory, and thereb}^ hangs another tale. 
 From immemorial time the noble Roman fam- 
 ilies have a sort of prescriptive right to a large 
 number of admission tickets, which they use 
 in part themselves, and in part, it is said, offer 
 for sale in the hotels of Rome. These are 
 eagerly bought up by tourists and travellers, 
 who are largely Protestant. Hence it comes to 
 pass that while a bishop often cannot get a 
 ticket for an attendant priest, hundreds of 
 
166 A FEW MORE STRAY 
 
 Protestants and unbelievers hold prominent 
 places at the consistory. The story is of the 
 time when Pasquino (whence our English 
 "pasquinade") entertained the Romans with 
 his clever satirical skits. They took the form 
 of cartoons, and were placed during the night 
 at the foot of a statue to which all Rome was 
 wont to take its way to amuse itself of a morn- 
 ing. After one of the public consistories, this 
 is what greeted the eye of Rome. Two young 
 men are hurrying to the Vatican. Some curi- 
 ous passer-by bids them the time of day, and 
 would know why they hasten so. " We are on 
 our way," they say, '' to the Vatican, to the 
 consistory." " But where is the use of your 
 going; you can't get in." "Oh, that's all 
 right," rejoin the confident pair, " we turned 
 Protestant yesterday ! " 
 
 On leaving Rome I visited Assisi, fraught 
 with memories of St. Francis and St. Clare. 
 Loreto, also, with its Holy House, and from 
 Ancona crossed to Tersatto, near Fiume, where 
 the Angels first set down the House of the Vir- 
 gin when they came with it over the sea. I 
 recrossed the Adriatic to Venice in an Austrian 
 
LEAVES AND TRACES 167 
 
 boat. Four of us slept in one small stateroom, 
 packed like sardines. I could barely squeeze 
 into my berth, and passed the night in dread 
 lest the big burly German (known to be such 
 by his gutturals) who occupied the upper berth 
 should fall through and quite flatten me out. 
 My sympathies have always been with the un- 
 der dog, and henceforth will be more than ever 
 — for I was the under sardine ! 
 
 We came to Venice in the early morning 
 when the newly risen sun had turned every- 
 thing into gold. There she sat a queen upon 
 the waters. Small wonder that one Joseph 
 Sarto should have pined, and pines still, in his 
 prison-palace of the Vatican, for this old home 
 of his on the sea, which it is his inclement des- 
 tiny never more to set eyes on. Venice is a 
 city without streets. Instead there are canals 
 and corridors — canals where glide the swan- 
 like gondolas, and corridors between the 
 houses, so narrow that people living on oppo- 
 site sides may shake hands across. 
 
 While I sat writing the last paragraph the 
 life of Pope Pius the Tenth was slowly ebbing 
 
168 A FEW MORE STRAY 
 
 away. He was passing to the better world, 
 where the wicked cease from troubling, and 
 the weary are at rest. He had fought the good 
 fight, he had kept the faith. He had laboured 
 while yet it was day, knowing that the night 
 Cometh when no one can labour more. His 
 was a truly simple and apostolic life. He had 
 a single eye to the glory of God and the good 
 of his fellow-man. K ever there was one who 
 could say that he sought not the office, but 
 that the office sought him, he was the Pope 
 whose loss we mourn. He has done an endur- 
 ing work for God and the Church, and has left 
 an inspiring example of a life untainted with 
 worldliness and fragrant with faith and good 
 works. Eternal rest grant to him, Lord, and 
 let light perpetual shine upon him! 
 
 I spent a night in Domodossola just beyond 
 the beautiful Lago Maggiore, in the Italian 
 Alps. Here the Rosminian Fathers have a col- 
 lege for boys, largely attended. A unique fea- 
 ture of the museum is a room filled with la- 
 belled specimens of the different kinds of stone 
 taken from the great Simplon tunnel — an al- 
 most endless variety. Beyond the Simplon, on 
 
LEAVES AND TRACES 169 
 
 the Swiss side, the train, which is driven by 
 electricity, passes along the side of a precipi- 
 tous mountain. An Alpine river winds its way 
 two thousand feet below. From the window 
 of the train I caught a glimpse of a flying 
 aeroplane, about midway down. Far beyond 
 on the other side the eye rested on great fields 
 of untrodden snow. The valleys of Switzer- 
 land are for the most part so narrow that it 
 is easy to get a good view of the wonderful 
 mountain scenery. 
 
 At Berne I had just time to pay a visit to 
 my old acquaintances — I dare not say friends 
 — the bears. There are as many as seven of 
 them now in the underground enclosure across 
 the Aar river, the cubbies that I saw on my 
 first visit having grown into bears. I bought 
 one or two specimens of the beast in wood, and 
 saw many more that would have made inter- 
 esting additions to my former repertoire- 
 bears painting, bears playing cards, bears play- 
 ing the piano, bears working in wood, bears 
 smoking long German pipes, bears nursing sick 
 bears, and bears rejoicing in the birth of cub- 
 bies! 
 
170 A FEW MORE STRAY 
 
 From Berne I passed to Strassburg, from 
 Strassburg along the banks of the Rhine to 
 Cologne, and from Cologne to Aix-la-Chapelle, 
 known to me from schooldays as a place where 
 peace treaties were signed. Peace then 
 brooded on the land, a land of plenty, smiling 
 with promise of a rich harvest. But on every 
 hand were soldiers, and the whole nation ap- 
 peared to be cast in a military mould. What- 
 ever the outcome of the terrible war into which 
 Europe is plunged to-day, the future historian 
 will record and lay due stress on this signifi- 
 cant fact, that Germany led the world in war- 
 like preparation, and that other nations did but 
 strive to keep pace with her. 
 
 The return voyage, on the Empress of Brit- 
 ain, was almost without incident. One day of 
 storm we had, in mid-ocean, when our big ship 
 was tossed about and great seas broke over 
 her. A day or two later, on the banks of New- 
 foundland, an iceberg was sighted almost di- 
 rectly ahead. It looked ghostlike as it loomed 
 up out of the haze, and the air for miles around 
 was chill as winter. I left the ship at Rim- 
 ouski, about sunrise of a July morning, close 
 to the spot where her sister ship went down a 
 few weeks before with almost every soul on 
 
LEAVES AND TRACES 171 
 
 board. At Rimouski I took an eastbound train 
 to my old home, feeling, as I never felt before, 
 the force of Sir Walter's undying lines : 
 
 Breathes there a man with soul so dead 
 Who never to himself hath said, 
 This is my own, my native land ! 
 Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, 
 As home his footsteps he hath turned 
 From wandering on a foreign strand. 
 
WORKS BY THE 
 
 RT. REV. ALEXANDER MacDONALD. D.D., 
 
 Bishop of Victoria, B.C. 
 
 The Symbol of the Apostles. 
 
 A Vindication of the Apostolic Authorship of the Creed 
 
 on the Lines of Catholic Tradition. By Rt. Rev. Alex. 
 
 Macdonald, D. D., Bishop of Victoria, B. C. 12mo. 377 pp. 
 
 Cloth, net, 1.25; full morocco, net, 2.00 
 
 " A splendid work." — Ecclesiastical Review. 
 
 " In point of originality and brilliant achievement one of 
 the most notable books that has come to a reviewer's desk 
 in many a day." — Catholic Record. 
 
 " I am too much impressed by the cumulative strength 
 of it to stand off as a doubting critic to find possible flaws." 
 Rt. Rev. Dr. MacNeil, of St. George, N. F. L. 
 
 •' A splendid example of critical scholarship." — The 
 Guidon. 
 
 " We have read it twice, parts of it oftener. We are of 
 the opinion that if some of those who felt called upon to 
 review it had done the same they would hardly have come 
 to the conclusion with respect to it which they seem to 
 have reached. Dr. MacDonald's splendid history of the 
 Apostles' Creed has a fresh interest now for its closing 
 chapter dealing with the name ' Catholic ' and when and 
 how it came to be the distinct title of the Church." — Rev. 
 L. A. Lambert, LL. D., in New York Freeman's Journal. 
 
 " The author, a brilliant alumnus of the Roman Seminary 
 of Propaganda, and a highly appreciated contributor to 
 several Catholic periodicals, is at once a metaphysician and 
 a scholar. His refutation of Harnack's theory concerning 
 the Creed bears the impress of the twofold quality of his 
 subtle and searching mind. We believe the refutation in 
 question is complete." — Mgr. L. A. Paquet, of Laval 
 University. 
 
 '• It is a relief to come across a work like Bishop 
 MacDonald's Symbol of the Apostles, after the dreary waste 
 
of academic discussions that centre about this well-wora 
 eoDfession of Christian faith." — Very Rev. Dr. Shahan, la 
 The Catholic University Bulletin. 
 
 *' The student, be he a Roman Catholic, or a catholic- 
 minded Presbyterian, or an out-and-out disciple of John 
 Calvin, will read Dr. MacDonald's Symbol of the Apostles 
 with interest and not without profit." — The Presbyterian 
 Witness. 
 
 "The Symbol of the Apostles by Dr. MacDonald is a 
 work of great erudition, and I congratulate the publishers 
 on the way they have executed their part." — N. C. Matz, 
 Bishop of Denver. 
 
 A work of great merit and standard erudition. — Most 
 Rev. Dr. Begin, Archbishop of Quebec. 
 
 A contribution of the highest value to the historic aspects 
 of our belief. — Bishop MacDonald, of Charlottetown, P. E. I. 
 
 It is a learned work and should be in the library of 
 every priest and educated layman. — Bishop Horstman, of 
 Cleveland. 
 
 A scholarly and edifying book. — The Catholic Columbian, 
 
 Based on original research and built up by critical 
 acumen and masterly scholarship. — The Catholic Record. 
 
 Dr. MacDonald shows a very full and accurate knowl- 
 edge of the early writers whose works have a bearing on 
 the subject .... and by a process of keen and logical 
 reasoning, builds up a new defence too solid and strong for 
 the artillery of historical criticism. — The Cross. 
 
 Bishop MacDonald has given us in this volume a painstak- 
 ing sr'uolarly work, .... from a point of view not 
 so much in evidence in the present day discussion of the 
 subject as that which it opposes. — The Homiletic Monthly. 
 
 The book is well indexed, and there is a list of the 
 authorities consulted in its preparation. His readers will 
 thank him for yielding to the request to add the very 
 satisfactory closing chapter on the Catholic name. — The 
 Boston Pilot. 
 
Tl&e Symbol in Sermons* 
 
 — i^— ^— — ma— a8ina»aiiiiiii«iiiii mii iiiw» 
 
 A aeries of Twenty-five Short Sermons on the Articles 
 of th% Creed. By Rt. Rev. Alex. Macdonald, D. D. 12mo. 
 214 pp. net, 1.00 
 
 " Its chapters are pregnant with thought. . . . The 
 work is well done, clear, definite, and complete." — The 
 Catholic Transcript. 
 
 " It is lucid and easy in style, concise in arrangement, and 
 magnetic in its erudition." — The Catholic Register. 
 
 " This work is all it professes to be. It might also be 
 styled excellent sermons on the Apostles' Creed." — The 
 Church Progress. 
 
 " We recommend this volume to our readers for their 
 use and as a most appropriate gift to the inquiring 
 Protestant." — The Catholic Record. 
 
 " We think that this volume of Dr. MacDonald's will 
 take a high place among works of this class. Altogether, 
 in matter and method, these sermons are well suited both 
 to serve as sources to which preachers can have recourse, 
 and models for their own work." — The Homiletic Monthly. 
 
 The Sacrifice of the Mass. 
 
 " This is a book of the highest merit, and one that 
 should be in the hands of both the clergy and laity." — The 
 Catholic Columbian-Record. 
 
 "Three chapters are headed: 1. The True Idea of 
 Sacrifice, 2. History of the Sacrificial Idea in the Mass. 
 3. The Sacrificial Idea in the Mass. A careful analysis of 
 each chapter precedes the work, and an appendix of quota- 
 tions is added." — The Sacred Heart Review. 
 
 " Theologians will find this book luminous and interest- 
 ing. — The Pittsburg Catholic. 
 
"This explanation sets the reality of the sacrifice of the 
 Mass in a new light and defends it against the more or 
 less rationalist theories that have been recently broached. 
 No doubt this book, like the Symbol of the Apostles, will 
 excite comment." — The Canadian Measeyigcr of the Sacred 
 Heart. 
 
 " To us the most luminous part of it seems his discussion 
 of the Last Supper and its relation to the Cross. We 
 are all so prone or so impelled by our limitations to regard 
 truth as if it were a set of separate texts, like people walk- 
 ing in a w^ooded country where they can only see small 
 spaces one by one, that the^most helpful writer is he who 
 guides us to an eminence where we can see that things 
 we thought diverse are but one or parts of one wiiole." — 
 The Casket. 
 
 " A second reading has deepened the first impression. I 
 
 really think you have made a valuable contribution to 
 
 theological science." — Right Rev. Dr. MacNeil ; Bishop of 
 St. George, Nfld., in a letter to the author. 
 
 " The Sacrifice of the Mass," by the Rt. Rev. Alex. Mac- 
 Donald, D. D., is " an historical and doctrinal inquiry into 
 the nature of the Eucharistic Sacrifice." Within the compass 
 of six score pages Bishop MacDonald gives a succinct, 
 scholarly, and adequate demonstration of the fact that the 
 traditional Catholic conception of Holy Mass as being 
 identically the same Sacrifice primarily offered at the 
 Last Supper and on the Cross — a conception attested to by 
 a cloud of witnesses throughout the centuries — is the very 
 truth. As in the author's previous works, " The Symbol 
 of the Apostles " and '* The Symbol in Sermons," there is in 
 this volume abundant evidence of many-sided erudition, 
 trenchant logic, luminous exposition, and that suggsstive- 
 neps of reserved power which stamps the work of the well- 
 equipped scholar. The book is brought out in neat and 
 attractive form by the Christian Press Association, New 
 York, — Ave Maria. Fine cloth binding, net 1.00 
 
Religious Questions of the Day. Vol. I. 
 
 By Rt. Rev. Alex. Macdonald, D. D., Bishop of Victoria, 
 12mo. eloth net 1.00 
 
 Volume I. 203 pp., Is a book of five essays and two 
 appendixes treating of The Biblical Question — The Virgin 
 Birth — Mary Ever a Virgin — The Assumption of the Virgin 
 Mary, and Bridging the Grave. 
 
 " Every student of theology vi^ill be stimulated by the book, 
 even if one must differ at times from the learned author 
 * * * the author displays a fine taste and a wide acquain- 
 tance with purely secular literature. — Catholic World. 
 
 " Simple and direct are his books, but what a world of 
 toil they represent. * * They are, indeed, testimonies to a 
 devotion to Sacred Science, and they are also beyond ques- 
 tion proofs of a many-sided erudition which is as edifying 
 as it is instructive. — Catholic Record. 
 
 " We recommend this work unreservedly to our educated 
 Catholic laymen." — The Oiiidon. 
 
 " In forceful presentation of solid arguments and fresh- 
 ness of color given to oldtime questions, they (the essays) 
 are equally meritorious." — Ave Maria. 
 
 Religious Questions of the Day. Vol. II. 
 
 Dr. MacDonald discusses the Symbol in the Netv Testa^ 
 ment — The Discipline of the Secret — The Ethical Aspect of 
 Bribery — A Notable Book (the much read book of Professor 
 Drummond on " Natural Law in the Spiritual World,") and 
 The Imagitiation. 223 pp. cloth net 1.00 
 
 " It is in the firm mastering of those permanent truths — 
 the wisdom, principles, divine and human, the clear insight 
 into their meaning and bearings, together with the practical 
 method of their application to certain subjects now occupy- 
 ing men's mind — it is in these qualities here in acta sccundo 
 that constitute the permanent worth of these essays. * * ♦ 
 set forth with the author's characteristic precision, per- 
 spicuity, and beauty of diction." — Ecclesiastical Review. 
 
 " Treated with a dignity and sureness sadly wanting in 
 the work of the apologists outside the Church who have 
 
taken flight so ignominiously before the onslaughts of tbe 
 ' higher criticism.' * * * Few present day writers on 
 Catholic topics are clearer or more satisfying than Dr. 
 MacDonald."— TTie Pilot. 
 
 Religions Questions of the Day. Vol. III. 
 
 Some Modernistic Theoeies and Tendencies Exposed, 
 By the Rt. Rev. Alexander MacDonald, D. D. Vol. III. 
 12mo. 329 pp. net, 1.00 
 
 Contents: The Gospel Narratives; Are They Really 
 Discrepant? The Catholic Encyclopaedia and the Higher 
 Criticism — Alleged Process of Evolution — False in Name and 
 in Fact— The Bible and Modern Difficulties — The Bible and 
 the Higher Criticism — Biblical Difficulties — A Novel with a 
 Purpose — History and Inspiration — ^The Firmament — The 
 Atonement — God's Foreknowledge of Moral Evil — ^The Date 
 of Our Lord's Birth. — Mgr. Duchesne and the Date of 
 Nativity — The Holy House of Loreto — The Materials of 
 the Holy House — The Assumption of the Blessed Virgin 
 Mary and a Charge of Modernism — The Assumption of the 
 Blessed Virgin Mary — Papal and Conciliar Infallibility — 
 St. Augustine and Evolution — The Apostles' Creed — A 
 Critique in the Dublin Review — The Eucharistic Sacrifice — 
 Grace the Life of God in the Soul. 
 
 Meditations on the Blessed Virgin. 
 
 From the German of Rev. Francis Gabrlni, S. J. New 
 edition carefully revised by the Rt. Rev. Alexander Mac- 
 Donald, D. D., Bishop of Victoria, Canada. 
 
 This book will fill a long-felt want and may be used dur- 
 ing the month of May at the evening devotions. Each 
 Meditation is divided into Three Points. This plan will be 
 found convenient for priests who have to preach or speak 
 on the Blessed Virgin. It will not be difficult for them to 
 find, in such a variety of matter, what they are in quest of ; 
 and since the division is already made, and the matter 
 already in order, they can have no further trouble than to 
 develop, a little more, the matter furnished them in these 
 pages. For religious this book will fill a niche that has 
 long been vacant. 
 
 Bound in cloth and contains 384 pages: net, $1.00 
 
THE HOLY HOUSE OF LORETO 
 
 A CRITICAL STUDY OF DOCUMENTS AND TRADITIONS 
 
 BY THE 
 
 RT. REV. ALEX. MACDONALD, D. D. 
 
 Bishop of Victoria, B. C. 
 
 " We have had frequent occasion to comment in these 
 columns on the many-sided erudition, the trenchant logic, 
 and the luminous exposition which characterize Bishop 
 MacDonald's apologetic work generally, and have ex- 
 pressed our appreciation of much of the material in the 
 present volume. It will accordingly be sufficient to re- 
 mind our readers that neither Canon Chevalier in his 
 work, nor Father Thurston, in his article " Santa Casa," 
 in the " Catholic Encyclopedia," has said the last word 
 as to the authenticity of the Holy House. The book be- 
 fore us cannot be disposed of by any supercilious assump- 
 tion that " scholars no longer doubt that the Holy House 
 is a pious fraud." — The Ave Maria. 
 
 " Every lover of Our Lady and of tradition will wel- 
 come Bishop MacDonald's work, which forms a powerful 
 protest against the iconoclasm, which, under the name 
 of scientific criticism, is attempting to destroy well- 
 grounded traditions by arguments which are mere hy- 
 potheses." — The Catholic Review. 
 
 " Bishop MacDonald is an uncompromising defender of 
 the ancient tradition concerning the Holy House of 
 Loreto. He takes issue both with Father Thurston's 
 views and with those of Canon Chevalier, on whose book 
 Father Thurston evidently drew in the prepartion of his 
 article. The points at issue are well set forth in Bishop 
 MacDonald's book. The Holy House of Loreto." — 
 The Catholic Educational Review. 
 
 " Catholics all over the English-speaking world will hail 
 with delight this masterful vindication of their devotion 
 to Our Lady of Loreto. The learned Bishop in this book 
 
puts a quietus on those gentlemen who thought they had 
 proven that the translation of the Holy House of Loreto 
 was a myth." — The Western Catholic. 
 
 " There is no doubt that the arguments which the 
 learned Bishop marshals in defence of the Holy House, 
 cannot be lightly set aside. All lovers of the venerable 
 shrine of the Blessed Virgin will be thankful to tue Kt. 
 Rev. Bishop for his vigorous and spirited defence, and 
 even those who disagree with him on scientitic grounds, 
 would do wrong to shut their eyes to the force and so- 
 lidity of the arguments brought forward." — The Ec- 
 clesiastical Review. 
 
 " It has long been a pious tradition that the house the 
 Holy Family lived in at Nazareth was miraculously trans- 
 lated to Loreto. These pilgrimages have been made for 
 centuries and wonders done by God's intervention and 
 Our Lady's. Bishop MacDonald has, in a book of 400 
 pages, vindicated the faith that is in him as to the 
 reality of the Holy House of Loreto and at the same time 
 completely routed Canon Chevalier's assertions to the 
 contrary or doubt-castings on the pious belief of ages." — 
 Catholic Register and Canadian Extension. 
 
 " Bishop MacDonald's learned treatise, based on docu- 
 mentary evidence as well as personal observation, in sup- 
 port of the miraculous translation of the home of St. 
 Joseph and the Blessed Virgin is highly interesting. 
 This latest contribution to Marian literature can not fail 
 to be very welcome and pleasing to devout clients of the 
 Mother of God everywhere." — The Catholic Light. 
 
 " Bishop MacDonald's study of the documents and 
 traditions of Loreto, are wide and comprehensive. He is 
 a firm believer in the history of the Holy House and his 
 book is a thorough answer to the skeptics and modernists 
 who are influenced by the hypercritical views of the day. 
 To all interested in the sacred shrine the book will prove 
 of very great interest." — The Tablet. 
 
 " This History of the Holy House of Nazareth will be 
 appreciated." — The Pittsburgh Catholic. 
 
When Canou Chevalier's " Notre-Dame de Lorette " ap- 
 peared, every one pretending to be a " scholarly histor- 
 ian " thought to justify his claim by shouting that Loreto 
 was now as dead as a door-nail. 
 
 One of their strongest points was that prior to the 
 translation of the Holy House, no pilgrim to Nazareth 
 seems to have mentioned it. To one who knows any- 
 thing about the House to-day this appears at first sight 
 decisive. Who could go to Loreto and not speak of the 
 House standing up under the roof of the basilica? 
 Similarly, who could have gone to Nazareth and have 
 remained silent about the House? This probably gave 
 the argument its force for Chevalier and his friends, 
 who, strange as it may seem, never thought it worth 
 while to visit either Nazareth or Loreto before planning 
 their attack ; which, like the staff of a modern army, they 
 developed far away from both places. Not so Bishop 
 MacDonald. He was absolutely familiar with Nazareth 
 and Loreto, visiting them more than once, though he did 
 live across the Atlantic in Antigonish ; and he brings out 
 the important fact that the House was in the crypt of 
 the Nazareth Church, that it was in contact with the 
 caves which with it formed the entire dwelling of the 
 Holy Family, and that a very careful examination would 
 have been required to distinguish it from them, Sec- 
 ondly, he shows that before the translation pilgrims spoke 
 of the house and the caves together as the Holy House, 
 and. Thirdly, that since the time of the translation a part 
 that was spoken of by thQ pilgrims no longer exists in 
 Nazareth, and that its site was a place now vacant. 
 Again, in dealing with Canon Chevalier's assumption that 
 the Church of St. Mary in finido Laureti, existing before 
 the date of translation, must be identified with the 
 Holy House, he shows, following Father Eschbach, how 
 impossible it is to establish any connection between the 
 two. — America. 
 
 My warmest congratulations for your scholarly and, 
 in my view, successful defence of the beautiful and time- 
 honored tradition of the angelic translation of the House 
 of Nazareth. 
 
 CARDINAL BEGIN, 
 
 Quebec. 
 
A SERIES OF SMALL BOOKS FROM THE WRITINGS OF 
 
 ST. ALPHONSUS LIGUORI, Edited by 
 Rt. Rev. Alex. MacDonald, D.D. 
 
 WAITING ON GOD, WALKING WITH GOD, 
 TALKING WITH GOD, WORKING FOR GOD 
 
 In neat and handy form these deeply devotional works 
 are ready for the public. Bishop MacDonald has made a 
 judicial selection of the most striking treatises on the 
 love of God, the little books, well bound and cheap are 
 suitable for visits to the Blessed Sacrament. Private Re- 
 treats and special devotions, etc. They will be highly ap- 
 preciated by both young and old. — Newark Monitor. 
 
 These little books deal with the various phases of the 
 spiritual life and point out the way to attain perfection. 
 They can be used with profit for spiritual reading both by 
 the laity and by religious. — Catholic Bulletin. 
 
 These delightful and very helpful little works will prove 
 veritable treasures to all who are honestly trying to save 
 their souls. — Western Catholic. 
 
 The subjects are well chosen and follow a natural se- 
 quence, viz., Importance of Salvation, Eternity, Death, 
 Hell, Love of Jesus, etc., etc. — The Catholic Times, Liver- 
 pool, England. 
 
 These are charming little works and will do much in 
 promoting the greater glory of God. The Christian Press 
 always make the book and the price with the intention of 
 reaching the greater numbers. — The Tablet. 
 
 Bishop MacDonald has in these neat and attractive little 
 books gathered in a very small compass much of the very 
 essence of the numerous writings of this great Doctor of 
 the Church, and hence deserve a wide circulation. — The 
 Exponent. 
 
 Black Silk Cloth net .30 Seal, limp, gold edges net .50 
 
 Genuine Morocco, gold roll, red under gold edges 
 
 net .$1.00 postage extra 3c 
 
 Christian Press Association 
 Publishing Company 
 
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