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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
there were letters written his mother while he was away from home,
at school or college, and a collection of locks of hair cut on
successive birthdays, till the boy had laughed her out of the custom.
She placed these side by side now, ranging them according to their
dates, and studied the gradual change from the silken-silvery
crescent of a curl cut from the head of the year-old babe, through
deepening shades, to the thick brown tress cut on his twentieth
birthday. Every little lock had its story to tell, and she went over
each, ending with a kiss, in fancy kissing the child’s face she seemed
again to see. And as she sat there conning the past, memory struck
every chord of her heart, from the sweet, far-away vibration when
her first-born was placed in her arms, and coming down through
deepening tones to the present.
She lifted her face, that had been bent over these mementos.
“Now he is Father Chevreuse, and I am an old woman!” she said;
and, sighing, rose and put the souvenirs all away. “We have had a
glad and prosperous life; how little of sorrow, how little of adversity!
I never before realized how much I have to be thankful for.”
Presently she put a veil over her head, and went out through the
basement into the church to say her prayers. She always said her
evening prayers before the altar; and now she had double cause to
be scrupulous. She must atone for past unthankfulness, and pray for
her son’s safe return.
By ten o’clock, the house was closed for the night, and the
inmates had all gone to their quiet slumber. Mother Chevreuse’s
uneasiness was all gone, and, after devotions of unusual fervor, she
felt an unwonted peace. “Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit!”
she said, and sank to sleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.
About midnight, she started up, wide-awake, and listened. There
was a low, stealthy sound, as of a door being softly opened. Could
her son have changed his mind, and come home again? Some one
was certainly in his room. She stepped out of bed, and listened
keenly. There was a faint noise like the rattle of a latch or lock, and
then a soft step retreating.
 “It is he come back!” she thought joyfully; and, even in thinking
so, was smitten by a wild and sudden fear. She slipped on a
dressing-gown and sandals, and hurried toward the door. “My son!”
she said breathlessly as she opened it.
Faintly seen in the dim light, a man’s form was leaving the room
by the entry. A shawl or cloak wrapped him from head to foot, and
he held a little chest in his hand. In that chest F. Chevreuse kept his
money.
All personal fear deserted his mother’s heart at that sight. She
thought only that the fruit of her son’s long labors was being carried
away under her eyes, and that, after the brief joy of his success, he
would come home to bitterness and disappointment.
She ran after the retreating figure, and caught it by the arm.
“Shame! shame!” she cried. “It is the money of the poor. It belongs
to God. Leave it, in God’s name.”
The man bent down, and wrapped his form still more closely
from recognition, as he wrenched himself loose. But while forced to
let go his arm, she caught at the casket he held, and clung with all
her strength, calling for help.
“Let go!” he said, in a hoarse whisper. “Let go, or I shall do you
harm!”
As she still clung and cried for help, they stood at the head of the
stairs leading to the basement of the house. Steps were heard
below, and Jane’s voice calling Andrew, and screaming from the
window.
The man made one more fierce effort to free himself. Drawing
back from the stairs, he turned quickly, and threw himself forward
again. There was a sharp cry, “My son!” and a fall. Then a fainter
cry, “My God!” and then silence.
 TRAVELLERS AND TRAVELLING.

What does one gain by travelling? says some old wiseacre, with a
shake of the head. Better the man that settles down and grows with
his native or adopted dwelling-place. “The rolling stone gathers no
moss,” is a venerable saying. Men who stay only a short time in one
place can never be sufficiently known or loved by any people, and
hence their credit and fortune cannot increase.
What does one not gain by travelling? says the boy who is just
old enough to relish Robinson Crusoe, whose natural curiosity is
feverish for knowledge. For him, all countries are more interesting
than his own. He longs to climb the hill that bounds his native plain,
to see what lies beyond. No one for him so interesting as the soldier
or sailor come back from foreign lands, and he asks, with deep,
attentive inquiry, “if there are boys in such places, too, and whether
they are born there, or if they also went away from here?” Power,
wealth, beauty, have no charm for him. Money he values merely
because it opens his path to distant lands; and his instinctive desire
to know is the passion of his youth. This is the story of all of us, at
least all of us boys. It is only when our curiosity is satisfied either by
personal experience or by credible hearsay, when we meet members
of the whole human family, and find them seeking in our country
that peace and beauty which we used to ascribe to theirs—it is then
we realize that life is not poetry; that one’s native land is generally
happiest for him; and that the best thing for one to do is to choose a
spot thereof, and, as “H. G.” used to say, “to settle down and rise
with it.”
 Between the sturdy proverb of the oldest inhabitant and the
boundless dream of the boy exists the medium wherein we shall find
the uses of travel. There is nothing which may not be abused, and
travelling may degenerate into a passion in individuals; but the
strength of the ties of country, home, and family, whereby nature
has bound us, forbids any but solitary instances of men who have
wandered, useless vagabonds on the earth, trespassing on all
countries, and aiding none; while, if the Holy Ghost call forth some
apostle from his kindred to sound the trump of faith among many
peoples, the Lord, who gives him an extraordinary mission, will
endow him with special grace, and the world will gain by his
vocation. This is the greatest traveller: who goes forth, not to his
own gain, nor to further his nation’s weal, but to extend the
kingdom of God on earth; to enlighten those who sit in darkness,
and bring them to the knowledge of the truth.
Why do people travel? People travel for health, for pleasure, for
business, and for knowledge. Some fifty thousand Americans
travelled in Europe last summer with one or other of these objects in
view. Have they all gained by their trip? Has the nation profited? Are
they healthier, happier, richer, wiser, for their tour in Europe? A
general answer to these questions cannot be given. All depends on
the character of the individuals who composed that large army. Their
particular circumstances and characteristics may have caused some
to gain, others to lose, both when there is question of health, as well
as when we speak of enjoyment, riches, and useful knowledge. I
was one of that invading army that descended on Europe last year,
and will try to make others partakers of whatever is communicable
of the advantages derived from the trip which under advice I took to
the other hemisphere. We will see who are they that lose by going
abroad, what danger and damage they incur, and the reasons why.
We will also find what persons profit by the excursion, what
dispositions are required for this; and, by contrasting and comparing
each, we shall be enabled to conclude how much of loss and how
much of gain there is in travel, how the one is avoided, and the
other achieved. All this I will make bold to illustrate from my own
experience.
A change of air is well known to influence one’s health very
much; for a man lives as much on good air as on what are
commonly considered the elements of sustenance. I heard a
gentleman state that the change from Newburg to New York in
summer had caused him to gain eleven pounds in a fortnight. It was
all in the change. A citizen flying from this pent-up atmosphere to
the expanded vision and pure breezes of that delightful town could
hardly have gained more in the same period. Hence the doctors
prescribe change of air so frequently. An English physician says: “It
is undoubted, explain it how we may, that a change of air, diet, and
scene rouses the faculties, improves the appetite, and raises the
spirits. When you set out for France, then, on your little trip of
twenty-five miles across the channel, pray Heaven you may get
thoroughly sea-sick, that nothing old or vitiated may make a bad
foundation for the new man you are going to build up.” People from
the plain gain by a change to the mountains; people from the
mountain by visiting the plains. People from inland by going to the
sea-shore, and those from the beach by retiring to the meadows. As
with the body, so with the mind. Our faculties become as it were
choked up and stagnant by continual monotony; even the most
brilliant conversation, music, the best jokes of a friend, fail at last to
please or rouse the spirit. Activity and exercise are necessary for the
mind and soul as well as for the body, and are obtained by seeking
contact and conflict with new ideas, sights, and wonders to move
the imagination; and the consequent enlivening of the spirits acts at
once on the body, and does more to restore physical power than any
material food. It is by visiting foreign places; seeing strange customs
which excite our curiosity; wondering at Alpine heights and Rhenish
castles; sympathizing with the decayed glories of Venice and old
Rome; confronting ourselves with the soul-entrancing beauty of the
Bay of Naples and the awe of that burning mountain which stirs the
depths of the spirit—it is thus we produce that friction, that reaction
requisite for rousing soul and body from tepidity and the stagnancy
of hypochondria and disease. Our spirits rise, the circulation is
quickened by the winds of France and the music of Italy, the strange
cuisine of other lands start all our organs into activity, and happiness
and health are the result.
There are those, however, who travel, and yet gain neither in
spirits nor in health. What often makes the difference, other things
being equal, is the bigotry and contrariety of certain individuals.
Some persons are so ignorant, and therefore so bigoted, that they
will never tolerate customs different from their own, hold all who
think otherwise than they in profound contempt, and will persist in
following their own ways no matter where they go, and although the
habits and opinions of an entire nation are opposed to them. Such
persons never gain good spirits; for they will not open the windows
of their miserable little souls, to let in the rays of happiness in which
the people about are basking. An Englishman of fifty years ago, for
instance, sets out with the notion that whatever is not English is
contemptible. Hence, he is disgusted with the pleasant sounds of the
French tongue; the agreeable politeness of the lady in the restaurant
irritates him—perhaps he feels angry that a Frenchwoman should be
so much at ease in his presence; the play he despises, because his
taste is too debased to rise to its enjoyment, or because Parisians
applaud it. He will have his beefsteak in the morning and his heavy
slices of bread, no matter though the whole French nation should
think a light breakfast more healthful. Hence, it is impossible that
this man’s health should improve. Instead of getting mentally sea-
sick (he can’t help getting bodily so; and the prouder he is, the more
amusing his appearance then), and throwing off prejudice, he keeps
in his mind a bile that jaundices his views, and corrodes every
healthy idea that may possibly enter his soul. He follows his own
notions at the table; and, as the food and habits of his northern isle
do not suit southern latitudes, of course he gains nothing in health,
and often becomes sick, and returns home disgusted with dons and
messieurs, signors and mynheers, and tells you “there’s no use in
travel—he tried it.” The first requisite, then, is, when you go to
Rome, to do as the Romans do. The customs of a place show what
its inhabitants prefer; and it is silly in any man to set his own little
ideas against the experience of a whole people.
My friend and I had the misfortune to meet one of this class on
setting out on our trip, and thrown together as we necessarily were
on an ocean steamship, it caused us a great deal of inconvenience.
The poor man was actually yellow from dyspepsia and bigotry. I am
sorry to say he passed for an American. Whether his bigotry caused
that viselike fastening up of his better nature, and, reacting on his
body, ruined his digestion, as might easily be, or whether the
desperate state of his chylopoetic fluids produced a corresponding
straitness in his soul, which we assumed as the more charitable
supposition, I can’t say; but certainly all the benefit of new and
entertaining society, all the advantages of sea air, change of diet,
etc., were lost, necessarily lost to him. What was the cause of his
old-fogyism? One dreadful incubus—you might call it a standing evil,
a nightmare (diurnal as well as nocturnal)—was the presence at the
same table, and in the willing association of those whom he also
preferred, and whose company he courted, of us two priests. The
man could not look us in the face, could not accept the salt at our
hands, would not “do us the pleasure of wine,” as they say on
English ships; in fact, his bigotry stood between him and his own
enjoyment and good appetite, rendered our position disagreeable,
caused the rest of the company (Protestants themselves) to
condemn his behavior in the strongest terms on deck, and ruined
the pleasure of our voyage, at least during the time spent at table.
One of his acquaintances was a whole-souled, honest, generous
gentleman, a Methodist from Brooklyn. He, on his part, took every
opportunity to throw sunshine about him, and to be polite to us
especially, as if to make up for the fellow’s savageness; and one day,
when the dyspeptic was complaining to the waiter as bitterly as if he
were being flayed alive, the other turned to him, and said aloud:
“Ebenezer, if I was an undertaker getting up a funeral, I’d hire you
for chief mourner.” John invited us to his cabin, and the other turned
away from its door when he saw us within. John proposed to take
his cheerful, amiable wife to Ireland first; Ebenezer declared his
abhorrence of the Irish and his contempt for Killarney. “He wouldn’t
advise anybody to go to Ireland; he’d been there three times, and
there was nothing to see but beggars.” John took him up before the
company: “Why did you go there the second and third time,
Eben?”—a question which disconcerted the dyspeptic, and caused
intense amusement to the passengers. Such an one had no use to
go travelling for health or anything else. You must open the windows
of your soul, slacken the risible muscles of your face, and reduce
yourself to a soft, pliable, impressionable condition, if you want to
benefit by change of air, scenery, and society. Dry, hard wax does
not receive the impression of the seal. But let a man set out with
proper dispositions, leave care and prejudice behind, be ready to
speak of men and things as he will find them, let no thought of
business come up for a while, but move along easily and quietly
through the scenes and people of other lands, and he will
experience the advantages of travelling for health.
Another motive for travel is business. The post and the telegraph
afford wonderful facilities for carrying on commercial relations
between different firms and branches of the same house in different
countries; but many circumstances render personal visits and
interviews often necessary. Hence, the number of travellers on
business is very large. Many New York houses send trusty men to
Europe annually or oftener to buy the stuffs and to inspect and
select the styles which fickle fashion imposes on her votaries.
The American is not satisfied with looking through foreign eyes,
for he knows that short or long-sightedness is often the defect of
even business men in those old countries. Hence, he goes to see
and inspect for himself, and commonly finds an opening where the
Frenchman, the German, even the Englishman, did not suspect its
existence; throws a bridge over a chasm which to them seemed
impassable; works his way through difficulties they thought
unsurmountable; and pushing on over precipices and untrodden
ways, “that banner with the strange device, Excelsior,” in his hands,
astonishes the natives, and secures the trade of the world. Thus
Singer, the sewing-machine man, goes to the ancient mediæval city
of Nürnberg, amongst other places—a city seemingly so dead as to
have recently erected another monument to Albrecht Dürer, the
artist, the only statue in the town; as if the last man of push and
note they produced was dead 350 years. Singer goes to this sleepy
old city, and, in spite of the depth and inflexibility of the old channels
in which trade had been running for a thousand years, attempts to
revolutionize it all at once with his sewing-machine. In spite of the
opposition of the tailors, which similar endeavors in parts of Great
Britain failed to overcome, he succeeds; for, instead of hiring a plain
office, in the simple manner of the country, and cautiously investing
a little capital at the outset, the American, with characteristic
enterprise and self-approved wisdom, spends hundreds in
advertising and thousands in erecting a building the most imposing
and expensive of its kind in the venerable city, astonishes the slow
Bavarians while attracting them by the employment he gives, makes
them believe that he is indeed the bringer of the great good he
claims, obtains their trade, and, while filling his own pockets, is a
herald of his country’s genius and enterprise. Another instance:
while sailing down the Rhine last October in one of those steamers
which approach nearest to the graceful beauties of our own rivers,
and which are therefore most highly praised by tourists, we were a
little surprised and considerably proud at seeing “Lent’s Floating
American Circus” (like a vast floating bath) paying a visit to one of
the cities of that noble stream, up and down whose banks it for ever
roves, catering for the amusement and instruction and picking up
the loose thalers of Fatherland with as much sang-froid as Dan Rice
on our Mississippi. When the people of the Continent behold the
Americans coming three thousand miles over the sea, passing inside
England, from whom we learnt these very institutions, whose child
our nation was, they naturally form a very high opinion of the
superior enterprise and skill of the republic, so that our democratic
institutions gain respect and our flag honor, while English influence
gradually decays. Thus George Pullman goes over and steps in
before John Bull, and secures the sleeping-car business on the
Continent. Nay, it is only now that, roused by his aggressive
boldness, England begins to adopt our great improvements in travel,
afraid of being left still more shamefully behind. Thus does the
business traveller, while making his own fortune, advance his
country’s name and influence; and his successful policy is always
that of generosity, accommodation, and politeness.
A class of men called commercial travellers is very numerous in
England and Ireland. They are a relic of the period preceding this
great advertising age, and go about from town to town soliciting
orders and selling goods of which they carry samples. Many of them
are peddlers also, and sometimes carry great value in money,
jewelry, etc., and offer story-tellers an attractive field for wild tales of
robbery on lonely roads, and murder in wayside inns. They all have
some story of this kind to relate. In Ireland, a room in every hotel is
set apart, called the commercial room, for the exclusive use of these
men, whose business transactions and responsibility require special
care and convenience, and where they can deposit their valuables
without danger of loss or damage. I was in a car once with one of
these lonely gentlemen, and he told me he travelled from the 1st of
January to the 23d December.
The company of a wife is not considered conducive either to
economy or to profit; but their life must be a dreary one, especially
in Ireland, where the accommodation on the railroads and in some
of the country hotels is not only very poor, but even dangerous to
health. In England even, they have just begun to heat their cars,
which are far below those on the Continent; and in Ireland, at least
in winter, I have had to sleep in a room with a quarter inch of
mildew dank and dark upon the walls. Persons travelling for
pleasure, however, are not generally subjected to this last
inconvenience, as the localities frequented by tourists are furnished
with whatever is needful for their comfort.
Pleasure is, doubtless, the object of most travellers; but it
includes much more than the word in its usual acceptance might
imply. The wealthy English travel in the mild, genial climates of
southern Europe during the prevalence at home of that indescribably
abominable weather which sits on London like a plague during the
autumn and winter. Some of them also go abroad because they
cannot afford to reside at home. They revel in the atmosphere of
Rome and Naples—so mild that oranges bloom and flowers deck the
walls all through the wintry season. The sun is bright, while the
weather is not so mild as to interfere with balls, parties, concerts,
etc.; and hunting the fox, the wild boar, and the deer, with the
intoxicating pleasures of the carnival, and visits to the interesting
monuments of pagan and Christian times, make up a round of
diversion and entertainment peculiar to Italy.
The American tourist partakes of the same enjoyments, only that
his pleasure is sometimes interrupted and marred by the workings of
his practical and ever-active brain. I heard of one of our countrymen
paying a moonlight visit to that noblest of ruins, the Coliseum, in
company with a party composed of various nationalities. While they
gazed in silent, entranced contemplation at its dark majesty, with the
rays of the pale planet making its black recesses visible by contrast;
while they pictured to themselves 100,000 fair women and brave
men seated in its circuit, witnessing the bloody tragedy of the dying
gladiator or the triumphant martyr of Christ, the Yankee was asked
his impressions, and replied, on reflection, that “it was rayther large,
but money might be in the concern if ‘twas only roofed in and
whitewashed!”
I need not go to great length to show the pleasure which
travelling affords; the delight which all take in seeing new and
strange places, customs, works of art, ruins of antiquity, cataracts,
mountains, rivers, etc.—all of which have a wonderful charm in
lightening one’s heart, wearied by care; in purifying and
strengthening the brain, dimmed and dizzied by labor, and filling us
with pure and exquisite delight. Besides, many find in travel a refuge
from the routine of fashion, and the prospect of that lingering pain
which follows her severe, artificial, often painful enjoyments. In
other countries you do as you please. You are not criticised if you be
not absolutely en rapport with the usages of the tyrant fashion at
home, because she has stayed there; nor with the ways of her sister
abroad, because no one extages pects you to be au fait in customs
not your own. Moreover, you can live more cheaply, and your health
is benefited by the change. Hence, families broken down often leave
England and go abroad for economy’s sake, thus obtaining freedom
by their apparent misfortune.
The student of history and the classics is the one who finds most
pleasure in visiting foreign lands. Every town, every river, plain,
mountain range, and country, has an indescribable attraction for
him, and he gazes still charmed upon scenes which may very soon
sate the curiosity of others. His pleasure is one which, if you are a
reader, you will appreciate; and, if not, it would be impossible for me
to make you understand. See one of these visiting Lake George. His
imagination covers the water with the three hundred boats in which
Montcalm advanced to the siege of Fort William Henry. He sees
Leatherstocking and Uncas plodding through the forest on their war-
path, dropping silently down the stream by night, and putting up
their heads from under the water for a stolen breath of air, while the
bushes on the bank are filled with savages watching for their scalps;
stopping to eat and drink in the middle of the forest at what we now
call the Congress Spring at Saratoga. Let him gaze for the first time
on the coast of Ireland—what an interest has that venerable and
lovely land for him! He at once looks out for the ruined castles of her
decayed nobility; he seeks thirstingly a sight of those round towers
which stand old but fresh monuments of that time “when Malachy
wore the collar of gold which he won from the proud invader”; and
he remains alone, apart on the deck, recalling in sad satisfaction the
scene that presented itself long ago, when abbeys, churches, and
schools crowned the fair hill-tops of Erin. Let him stroll
companionless through London’s busy streets—he is not alone.
David Copperfield, Pickwick, Micawber, Sim Tappertit, Agnes, Little
Dorrit, Bill Sykes, and Fagin are always passing and repassing; acting
their parts for his entertainment. Let him view the tall, white cliffs of
Dover, and he sees Cæsar’s fleet approaching to the conquest of
Albion. Calais recalls the days of Catholic England’s greatest military
glory. Every spot of France, Germany, Italy lives again for him in one
short space its life of two or three thousand years; for all the events
of its history, all the heroes of its glory, are present to his memory
and imagination even more than their present phases to his vision
to-day. He sees the tradesmen of Flanders, the butchers, bakers,
weavers, smiths, combining for the liberation of their country at the
battle of the Golden Spurs, so called from the immense number of
these articles found on the field, representing the number of
professional soldiers of knightly rank slain by these bold democrats,
whose liberties they came to invade. He feasts his eyes upon the
“vine-clad hills of Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine,” which his boyish
imagination had pictured and laid back in the most loving recesses
of his heart. In Switzerland, the mountain-passes are crowned for
him by the native heroes, sons of Tell, and of those others who, in
the days of Catholic Switzerland, rose against the Austrian despot,
and in a band of 1,300 patriots defeated 60,000 hirelings of tyranny
at the battle of Morgarten. At Innsbruck, he venerates the soil
consecrated by the deeds of the citizen-soldier and martyr of liberty,
Andreas Höfer; at Venice, he recalls the glories of the republican
queen of the seas; while his interest and pleasure reaching their
height in the city of the popes, he pursues a boundless career of
enjoyment as he gazes on the monuments, walks over the localities,
peoples again the streets and forums, making all the heroes, poets,
and great women of royal, republican, imperial, and Papal Rome live
their lives and do their great deeds over again, and all for him, all for
him. No amount of reading or meditation at home can supply the
pleasure derived from visiting the famous places of history, while the
previous reading creates the desire and predisposes for the pleasure.
Hence it is that all students like so much to travel, and to travel on
foot.
Those who travel expensively lose a great deal of the benefit and
interest of travel. The magnificent hotels are filled with English and
Americans, principally those who affect that rank and demand that
obsequiousness abroad to which they could not aspire at home.
Many of them are very ignorant, and the waiters, for their sake,
speak a mongrel kind of English, which is simply unbearable when it
is not absolutely needed. The latter affect English ways; and, though
you may desire to practise your college French, German, or Italian,
they insultingly reply in your own tongue, as if to spare you any
further exhibition of your ignorance, and because their avarice
makes them more anxious to learn English than that you should
acquire a foreign tongue. I asked one of these servants once how
much I was to pay the hackman. My question was in German, his
answer in English; but I was on the point of paying thirty-six cents
for the lesson I gave him in our language, as he told me to give the
man eighty-four kreutzers instead of forty-eight, because he didn’t
know how to translate acht und pfierzig. The tourist who, through
his ignorance of the language or his desire of display, frequents
these English hotels, learns nothing of the languages, nothing of the
customs of the people, scarcely anything of the cuisine, but becomes
a target for the attacks of interpreters, guides, lying ciceroni, and a
host of hangers-on, who impose on him in proportion to his
ignorance, and palm off falsehoods on him suited to his bigoted
preconceptions on every subject. In the drawing-room and at the
table, he may as well be at home in London or New York, as far as
language, habits, etc., are concerned, and he often leaves a country
with less real knowledge of it than he had before he came.
The artist, the student, the gentleman bachelor, who stroll about
for their own pleasure, and pay no unnecessary homage to fashion
or humbug—these are the ones who derive genuine pleasure from
the novelty and constant surprises of new customs, languages, and
people. I have seen such persons, some of them men of
independent fortune, travelling in omnibus or on foot about
Germany, Switzerland, and Italy. They send their trunks on to some
known hotel in a place fifty miles off, and then, carrying simply a
knapsack with necessaries for a few days, take a stick and perhaps a
pencil and paper, and leisurely walk along the fine roads of those
countries, meeting a village every few miles, where they can take
some refreshment, or stay over night. This is seeing a country, and
knowing its language, customs, people, by personal observation, and
not through the uncertain medium of hotel guides. And who would
compare the restrained formality of fashionable moving about to the
glorious freedom of this? The students of the English College at
Rome used to travel thus two or three together during vacation, and
spend the time delightfully.
When visiting the ancient, interesting city of Nürnberg last
August—its old castle where the peace of Westphalia was signed,
and where many of the Western emperors resided; its curious walls
and fortifications; its old mediæval houses, with six stories, under an
oblique roof; its curious fountains; and the residence of Albrecht
Dürer—I entered a magnificent temple of old Catholic times, that of
S. Lawrence, now devoted to Lutheran worship. All the crucifixes,
pictures, and statuary with the altars still remain; for Luther was a
much more intelligent man than many who imitated his rebellion. I
was admiring the tabernacle of marble tracery, which reaches from
the pavement seventy feet up to the roof along one of the pillars,
and is the most exquisite piece of poetry in miniature stone I ever
saw, when my attention was drawn to two students, boys of sixteen
or seventeen, who were likewise visiting the church. They were very
plainly dressed; for the old Catholic universities are free in Europe,
and good conduct only is required as a condition of membership. On
their backs, they had knapsacks with straps coming over the
shoulders, and containing doubtless a change of clothing, while the
long German pipe was seen stuck into the bundle. They carried
sticks in their hands, and one had a guide-book, and was reading
therefrom, and pointing out to his companion the objects of interest
existing in the church. I watched the boys with great interest, and
felt how happy they were in their simple manners and pure
friendship—happy in the possession of knowledge more than if they
had the Rothschilds’ wealth or Bismarck’s power; they were in love
with and betrothed to wisdom, and independent of the world.
Walking about afterwards round the great moat and curious turreted
walls of this famous town, I came across my two friends, seated on
a bench in the shaded, turf-set promenade which girds part of the
city, taking their frugal meal of the inevitable sausage and brown
bread of the country. Thus they strolled about from town to town,
living plainly and simply as their means—the gift, perhaps, of some
patron—required, but happy in the banquet which their own
erudition and friendship provided. I have seen many travellers, and
they have remained longer or shorter in my memory; but the picture
of the two students of Nürnberg will remain with me always.
Among those who travel we may include that class so numerous
in our own day in proportion to the increase of the enemies of the
supernatural—those who, to satisfy their devotion, visit holy places.
The sight of persons or localities associated with supernatural events
or with the lives of those whose heroic sanctity we venerate,
impresses us beings of half spiritual, half corporeal formation in a
wonderful degree. I need not dilate on this. It is the reason why, in
all ages, such multitudes have traversed land and sea, spent years
even of their lives in visiting the Holy Land, Rome, Loretto,
Compostella. That they obtained pleasure and sensible satisfaction
you may easily imagine; and that they aided the faith by supplying
constant information relative to the locality of sacred events, and
thus kept up the strength of tradition, cannot be denied; but I would
console those whose responsible care of family or office, whose
want of means or leisure, prevent their assuming the pilgrim’s scrip
and staff, with the words of Thomas à Kempis: Qui multum
peregrinantur, raro sanctificantur.
There is so much to distract one in the strangeness and novelty
of foreign places, so much disturbance of order in one’s manner of
life, that, as a rule, one is likely to come home less single-minded
and less edifying than when he set out. However, I must bear
witness to an exception, though it is not calculated to be an example
for any one here. It is that of a Frenchman, a youth of twenty,
dressed in the national blouse (as a duster in the cars over a decent
suit of black), whom I met on the way to the famous shrine of
Lourdes. His faith was so simple, his modesty so perfect, his tongue
so straight (to use an Indian idiom), that I felt that the true Christian
is gentlemanly no matter to what class of society he may belong. I
was confounded and ashamed when I compared my faith and hope
with his, and knew that for the first time I addressed a man who had
never breathed the atmosphere of heresy and unbelief, who had
never felt a doubt or recognized a difficulty regarding the truths of
religion or the pious beliefs of Catholics. Reflecting on the difference
between what is termed “the world” in all the conceitedness of its
ignorance, and the class whom he represented, I could not wonder
that God should show his preference for the simple, truthful people
even by the most stupendous miracles. However, he was still in
France. Were he on an American railroad-car, he might have allowed
some of the mire of the world to adhere to his garments.
I will not rest long on the subject of the Lourdes pilgrimage, as
the entire press has been forced to notice it, and has given full
reports of the appearance of the shrine, the gatherings of pilgrims,
and the wondrous works. Although the people of the village are said
to be gradually losing their simple, amiable qualities, on account of
the enlivened trade and the continual distraction consequent on the
arrival and departure of perhaps a thousand strangers daily in a
village of 2,000 inhabitants, yet we could not help remarking the
piety of the matrons, the modesty of the maidens, and the
straightforwardness of the men—characteristics more refreshing to
us than the breezes coming down from the passes of the Pyrenees.
It is delightful to get out of an artificial state of society, and to see
men and women as God made them. I will have occasion to refer to
this subsequently when I speak of the Irish people. The peasantry of
Lourdes, whom God chose for this manifestation, are poor but not
slovenly, simple but not uncouth, comparatively illiterate but not
ignorant. Education is not at all incompatible with ignorance of
reading and writing; while barbarism is not seldom found united with
these accidental accomplishments.
One evening, having prayed at the famous grotto, which was
most exquisitely decorated with candles supplied by the pilgrims, we
strolled toward a farm-house, and, seeing some peasants just
finishing their day’s labor, stopped and addressed them. Lord
Chesterfield would have been charmed to see the ease and grace
with which the farmer rose from his task, and inquired our pleasure.
His conversation was pure, straight, and full of faith. He spoke of
things miraculous just as he did of other events, evidently not
thinking how people can question God’s power, or wonder at his
goodness. He had been one of that 20,000 who at times witnessed
the ecstasies of Bernadette; and, after describing what he saw, he
concluded: “Ah! sirs, who ever visits that grotto treads blessed
earth.” My friend complimented him on the purity of his language,
and the politeness he had shown us, and which, indeed, we
strangers scarce expected from one in his dress and employment.
“Why,” said he, “gentlemen, if you take kindness and good grace out
of the world, after all, what is there worth living for?” We were
charmed. There spoke a Frenchman—one of those who made some
one say: “They are a nation of gentlemen.” We visited his poor
habitation, and were still more pleased with his filial and conjugal
affection, as evidenced by his regard for his wife, and care of his
bedridden mother.
A propos of this subject of travelling for pleasure, it was very
beautiful to watch from a height the pilgrims, 1,500 in number,
winding around the road, crossing the bridge, and going down the
hillside to the grotto. First came the cross-bearer with the crucifix
shining in the sun, then the women and children in the dark dresses
which distinguish the inhabitants of the region. Some of them bore
lighted candles; others carried baskets on their arms and heads;
others had jars containing wine for their lunch, or intended to be
filled with the miraculous water. They sang the Litany of Loretto,
some priests along the ranks directing, as they walked in double file.
After these came the men; then the altar boys in full dress, and
thirty or forty in number; then the clerics, priests, and canons in
their robes; and finally the Bishop of Perpignan, in sacred vestments,
who had thus come with his people to visit the spot favored by the
Immaculate Virgin. I never before saw the expression, “The bishop
and his flock,” more perfectly illustrated.
We were particularly struck by the behavior of these people in
the church—a beautiful marble structure built on the rock, under the
side of which the waves of the passing river had formed the grotto.
They had none of the superstitious reverence of Mahometans nor
the cold decency of Protestants; but acted with that quiet respect,
alike remote from fear and levity, which characterizes well-reared
children in their father’s house and presence. After performing their
devotions with intense faith and childlike fervor, they sat down
before the grotto, on the sweet level bank of the river which skirts
the rock, and, in a spirit of Christian recreation, began their frugal
lunch.
So familiar are fervent Catholics with the wonderful works of God
that they who can talk and laugh when the communion thanksgiving
is ended found no difficulty in innocent relaxation after paying their
respects and perhaps witnessing miracles at the shrine consecrated
by the apparition of Mary. They reminded me of the αγαπη of the
first Christians, and of the feast we school-boys used to have long
ago, after closing our retreat with receiving the body of Jesus Christ;
and I could not but acknowledge that these people were most likely
to be favored with supernatural manifestations by him who said:
“Unless you become as little children, you shall not enter into the
kingdom of heaven.”
TO BE CONCLUDED IN OUR NEXT NUMBER.
 THE CANADIAN PIONEERS.
FROM THE FRENCH OF M. L’ABBE CASGRAIN.

I.—DETROIT.

Are you familiar with that fertile, laughing country, so rich in

historical souvenirs, whose virgin soil was first trodden by our French
ancestors? Are you familiar with these green and undulating prairies,
watered by limpid streams, and shaded by maples, plane-trees, figs,
and acacias, in the midst of which rises, brilliant in youth and
prospective greatness, the flourishing city of Detroit? If you wish to
enjoy fully the enchanting picture that this charming country
presents—whose climate need not be envious of the Italian sun—
ascend the Detroit River some fresh spring morning, when Aurora
has shaken her dewy wings over these vast plains, and when the
bright May sun has thrown its luminous rays through the transparent
mists of morning. Nowhere is there a clearer sky or more ravishing
nature. Nowhere are the wavy lines of the blue horizon more
distinctly traced. Here are wild and uncultivated sites, romantic
landscapes, little wooded islands, like baskets of verdure, all re-
echoing the mocking laughter of multitudes of birds. Pretty
promontories whose round arms encircle gulfs full of shadows and
sunlight; whose waves, caressed by these warm breaths, deposit
along the shore a fringe of silver foam. Hills and valleys, covered
with luxuriant verdure, mirror themselves in the neighboring wave.
On either side the shore stretches along, covered with pebbles or
fine gray sand; sometimes embroidered with a lace-like turf, or
bristling with tall reeds, crowned with little tufts, among which the
timid kingfishers perch, and take flight at the least noise. Here the
fresh murmuring rivulets flow under the flowery arches of interlacing
boughs; there tiny paths, edged with strawberries and forget-me-
nots, wind over the brow of the hill; and, more distant, the fresh
spring zephyr trembles on the green meadows, and perfumes the air
with a delicious fragrance. The thousand confused noises of the
water and the rustling foliage, the warbling of birds, the buzz of
human voices, the lowing of herds, and the distant and silvery echo
of the bells of the steamers that ply along the river, ascend from
time to time through the air, and diffuse an indefinable charm in the
soul and through the senses. At short distances apart, pretty little
villages stretch along the shore, or group themselves on the banks
of a stream, or again on the slope of a hill, or crowning its summit
like a diadem. Finally you arrive at Detroit, with its steeples and
roofs glittering in the sunlight. Hundreds of boats, engaged in
commercial interests, are constantly arriving at or leaving its quays,
furrowing the river in every direction. Were I a poet, I would
compare this charming city to the superb swan of this country,
which, on awakening in the midst of the rushes on the river’s bank,
shakes its white wings in taking flight, and showers around a rain of
dew and down; or, better still, to the stately magnolia growing on
the banks of the stream, when, shaken by the aromatic breath of
the morning breeze, it covers the wave in which it is mirrored with
the fertile dust of its corolla.

II.—THE PIONEER.
Founded in the year 1700, by M. de la Mothe-Cadillac, Detroit
remained for a long time under the Canadian government. It was
taken by the English in 1760, and remained in their possession until
the war of 1812. Then the United States became the happy
possessor of this charming country, which F. Charlevoix has so justly
called “the garden spot.” “Detroit,” says the Canadian historian, “has
preserved, in spite of its many vicissitudes, the characteristics of its
origin, and French is still the language of a large portion of its
population. Like all the cities founded and settled by this great
people—the monuments of whose genius are landmarks in America
—Detroit is destined to become a great business centre, on account
of its favorable situation between Lake Huron and Lake Erie.”[183]
Toward the year 1770 or 1780, Detroit was far from presenting the
flourishing aspect which it offers to the stranger to-day. It was only a
small fort surrounded by weak ramparts, and a stockade in which
lived a few hundred Canadian colonists—a veritable tent in the
wilderness. The fort was the advanced sentinel of the colony, and by
consequence constantly exposed to the attacks of the Indians.
Around the fortifications the colonists had cleared a few acres of
land, which they could only cultivate at the risk of their lives, holding
a pickaxe in one hand, and a gun in the other; while beyond, before,
behind, to the right, to the left, everywhere a wilderness,
everywhere interminable forests, whose gloomy shades concealed
multitudes of beings a thousand times more cruel, a thousand times
more formidable and to be feared, than the wild beasts and reptiles
which shared alike the tenebrious shelter. It is easy from this to
imagine what indomitable courage these hardy pioneers possessed
who dared to come and plant the standard of civilization in the midst
of these distant solitudes, in the face of such multitudinous perils.
One of the grandest pictures that the history of the New World
presents, after the sublime figure of the missionary, is that of the
Canadian pioneer. He is the father of the strongest race that has
been implanted on the American continent—the Canadian race; and
the noblest blood that has ever flowed in human veins, flows
through his—the French blood. Everywhere on the continent the
Canadian pioneer is to be found, and everywhere can be traced by
his blood. Travel through North America, from Hudson’s Bay to the
Gulf of Mexico, from Halifax to San Francisco, and on the snows of
the North Pole and the golden sands of California, along the Atlantic
strand, and on the moss-covered slopes of the Rocky Mountains, you
will find the print of his footsteps. An insatiable activity consumes
him. Onward! is his watchword, and he only rests when he has
reached the goal of his ambition. But it is not alone the love of
adventure nor the violent thirst for gold that stimulates him to
action: a nobler ambition urges him on, a more legitimate instinct
animates and guides him. He has a mission to accomplish—a
mysterious apostleship. Turn for a moment to the pages of our
history, and especially to the accounts of the Jesuits, and you will
see the Canadian pioneer throughout animated by the most
admirable zeal for the conversion of the savages, opening a way for
the missionaries by the most heroic efforts, and frequently himself
making the most wonderful conversions. We find united in him the
three grandest types of manhood: priest, laborer, soldier. Priest!—by
his ardent piety, his lively faith, his zeal for the salvation of vacillating
souls and obdurate hearts, drawing to the faith entire settlements.
Was there ever a more admirable priesthood? Laborer!—before his
powerful axe the great forests fall with a crash around him, and his
plough tracks, through the fallen trunks, the furrow where the green
germ of the future harvest will soon begin to tremble. Soldier!—by
years of mortal combat, he has conquered the soil that his hand
cultivates. Ah! were I only an artist, to trace on canvas this noble
figure in his triple character of priest, laborer, and soldier. In the
background of the picture, immense forests, in all their savage
grandeur; nearer, the waving grain, growing between the charred
trunks. In the foreground, a portion of the great river, with its
emerald waves sparkling in the sun. On one side, an angle of the old
fort, with its ramparts and stockade, whence rises a modest little
belfry surmounted by a cross. On the other side, a band of Indians
flying toward the edge of the wood. The centre-piece would be my
brave pioneer, his eyes flashing, his hair blown by the breeze, and
his forehead bleeding from a ball which had just grazed it, near him
his plough, and holding his gun, whose muzzle still smokes from a
recent conflict. At the right, he would be pouring the water of
baptism on the head of his vanquished and dying enemy, whom he
had just converted to the faith. Oh! how could I attempt to paint this
vigorous figure in the various attitudes of a soldier-laborer, with his
iron muscles, and the calm, serene strength of the man of the fields;
the invincible courage of the soldier, and the sublime enthusiasm of
the priest! Verily, this picture would not be unworthy of the pencil of
a Rubens or a Michael Angelo. Faith, toil, courage; priest, laborer,
soldier—this is the Canadian pioneer. It is Cincinnatus, the soldier-
laborer, become a Christian. It is the Spartan warrior, who has
passed through the Catacombs. The Canadian reader who peruses
these lines can raise his head with noble pride, for the blood that
flows through his veins is the blood of heroes. He can look
attentively at the palm of his hand, and see there still the unction of
earth, of powder, and of the priesthood. The pioneer has nobly filled
his mission: yours remains to be accomplished. A people to whom
God has given such ancestors is necessarily destined for something
great, if it faithfully corresponds with the designs of divine
Providence. But let us leave these teachings, which properly belong
to venerable heads, and return to our story.

III.—EVENING.
At the remote period which we describe, the fur trade of Detroit
was immense; and the Indians, aided and encouraged by the
facilities for reaching there, came in great numbers to sell the
products of their hunting expeditions. There were representatives
from the various tribes—Iroquois, Potawatamies, Illinois, Miamis,
and a host of others. M. Jacques Du Perron Baby was at that time
Indian superintendent at Detroit. This was an extremely important
and responsible position at that period. M. Baby had realized a
handsome fortune there in a few years. Almost all the land on which
the Detroit of to-day stands was then owned by him and a Mr.
Macomb, the father of General Macomb, who commanded a portion
of the American troops during the war of 1812. At the close of this
war, the entire property of M. Baby was confiscated in consequence
of his political opinions, which were declared in favor of Canada
versus the United States. His fine mansion stood in the centre of the
fort, surrounded by a beautiful garden. Having luxurious tastes, he
embellished it with all the requirements of refined and cultivated life.
The garden was on raised ground, surrounded by a sodded terrace;
the house stood in the centre, half concealed by a dense foliage of
maple, pear, and acacia trees, which waved their branches coaxingly
over its roof. A number of birds, sometimes hidden in the branches,
sometimes flying through the air, crossing, pursuing each other,
describing a thousand bewildering circles, abandoned themselves to
joyous song, while the little ramoneur,[184] complaining on the
chimney-top, mingled his shrill, harsh cry with their melodious
voices. It was evening. The last rays of the setting sun colored with
rose and saffron tints the tops of the forests. The heat had been
intense throughout the day. The evening breeze, coquetting among
the roses, dahlias, and flowering eglantine, refreshed exhausted
nature deliciously, and perfumed the air with the most intoxicating
fragrance. Tea was about being served in the garden, and the table
was most invitingly covered with tempting viands and lovely flowers.
The superintendent and his family were seated around; a young
officer who had been several months in Detroit had been invited to
join the family party. Two colored servants waited most assiduously
at the repast. “What a charming evening!” said the officer—he was a
handsome young man, with light hair, noble and expressive features,
and rather a high forehead. There was a proud, intelligent
expression in his bright eyes, and yet at times something vague and
dreamy. “Truly,” he continued, “I have never seen anything in Italy
more delightful than this; such a climate, and such ravishing
scenery, such fine effects of light and shade! Look there along the
horizon, and at those fleecy clouds which float through the azure
sky; they resemble a superb scarf fringed with purple and gold.”
“It is indeed a magnificent evening,” replied the superintendent.
“We really enjoy a very fine climate in this section of country. I have
never seen anywhere a clearer sky or more transparent atmosphere,
and nature so grand; but, against all of this, we are deprived of
nearly all of the luxuries and comforts of the old country, to say
nothing of the constant dangers to which we are exposed from the
Indians; for we are on the utmost limits of civilization. You, who
have just left the civilized shores of Europe, can scarcely form any
idea of the cruelty of these barbarians. Life is indeed very severe in
this new country.”
“Yes,” said his wife, whose fine physiognomy indicated her great
force of character; “it is only a few years ago that I was obliged to
do sentinel duty, and stand at the entrance of the fort with a gun in
my hand, while the men were occupied in cultivating the fields
around it.”[185]
The conversation was here interrupted by one of the servants,
who came to say that a stranger was waiting to see the
superintendent and his wife. They all arose from the tea-table.
“You look very sad this evening, mademoiselle,” said the officer,
addressing a young girl of sixteen or eighteen years of age, and
who, from a strong resemblance, could be easily recognized as the
daughter of M. Baby. “What can have happened to cause such a
shadow to fall on your fair brow; while all are smiling around you,
your heart seems full of sorrow? It is almost impossible that any one
could contemplate this lovely scene, and not experience a feeling of
interior peace. Nothing so completely bewilders me like an evening
of this kind. This graceful harmony of light and shade is for me full
of a mysterious intoxication.”
“Alas!” said the young girl, “a few days ago I too could have
enjoyed this scene; but to-day, as it were, every object is covered
with a funereal pall. This beautiful sky, these green fields, the
flowers and fruit, these vermilion roses, which charm your sight, all
make me shudder. I see blood everywhere.”
“My God!” cried the officer, “what misfortune can have happened
to you?”
“Oh! only a few hours ago, I witnessed such a distressing scene
that it is impossible to imagine it. I cannot obliterate it from my
mind, or distract my thoughts in the least from the shocking
spectacle. But I ought not to distress you by this sorrowful recital. I
had rather let you enjoy tranquilly these hours that afford you so
much pleasure.”
“Continue, continue,” exclaimed he. “Relate to me this tragic
story. Happiness is often so selfish, but we should always have our
sympathies ready for the sorrows of others.”
The young girl then continued: “Day before yesterday evening, a
party of Indians half intoxicated came into the fort to see my father;
they brought with them a young girl, whom they had captured
several days before. Oh! if you could only have seen the despair on
her countenance! Poor child, her clothes were in rags, her hair hung
in tangled masses, and her face was all scratched and bleeding. She
did not utter a complaint, nor did she weep; but stood with fixed
eyes, mute and immovable as a statue. We might have believed her
dead but for a slight trembling of the lips that betrayed the life that
was not visible. It was a fearful sight. I have never seen anything
like it. Great misfortunes are like severe wounds; they dry up our
tears as terrible and sudden wounds arrest the blood in our veins.
Compassionating her distressed situation, my sister and myself made
her come in and stay in our room through the night; but we did not
deceive ourselves with the slightest hope that anything could be
done for her rescue, for we knew too well the character of these
savages. Nevertheless, we tried to sustain her with a little hope that
something might possibly be done. Perhaps our father could succeed
in inducing the Indians to let her go. At last she gradually recovered
from her state of stupor, and told us her sad, sad story.”

IV.—AGONY.
“I have lived for some time,” said she, “near Fort Wayne with my
married sister. One morning, while her husband was at work in the
field, several Indians suddenly entered our house. ‘Where is your
husband?’ they inquired roughly of my sister. ‘He is at Fort Wayne,’
she replied, frightened by their sinister aspect; and they went out
again. Full of anxiety, we followed them with our eyes for some time.
‘O my God! sister,’ exclaimed I, trembling, ‘I am so frightened, so
terrified. Let us fly; these savages appear to me to be meditating
some dreadful act. I am convinced that they will return.’ Without
paying any attention to my words, she continued to watch them as
they went off in the direction of Fort Wayne. The road which they
took lay only a short distance from the place where her husband was
quietly at work, not having the slightest idea of the danger that
threatened him. Fortunately, a clump of trees hid him from their
sight. We began to breathe more freely, for they had now gone
beyond the field; but suddenly one of them happened to turn
around. ‘They have discovered him! they have discovered him!’
shrieked my sister, almost fainting with terror. And really they had all
stopped, and were looking in the direction where Joseph was
stooping down, gathering up the branches of a tree which he had
just cut down. He had no suspicion of danger. The Indians,
concealed by the trees, were now only a short distance off. Suddenly
we heard the report of a gun, and Joseph fell to the ground.
Believing him dead, they advanced boldly; but the ball had only
grazed his head, and he was stunned for the moment. He quickly
recovered himself, and, making a breastwork of the branches of the
felled tree, seized his gun, and in an instant two of them were
stretched stiff corpses on the ground. The others, alarmed, made a
precipitate retreat toward the edge of the woods, and then a quick
firing commenced on both sides. Joseph was a fine marksman; at
each shot, he disabled an enemy. Three had already fallen. We
awaited, in an agony of apprehension, the result of the mortal
combat, which would not have been doubtful had it been only an
ordinary enemy that the savages had to contend with. But Joseph
was a formidable adversary. He fired rapidly, reloading his gun with
the most perfect coolness, while the balls were whistling all around
him. Placing the muzzle of his gun between the branches, he made
the sign of the cross on his breast at the moment of taking aim;
then, pulling the trigger, we counted another Indian less. Every time
I saw a new victim fall, I could not repress a tremor of delight.
Joseph’s unerring ball had just struck a fourth enemy. We began to
hope, when we discovered one of the savages creeping along on the
ground behind him. No serpent could have advanced with more
cunning or address. Without shaking a pebble or disturbing a leaf, he
approached slowly; at one time concealing himself behind a little
knoll, then under a thicket of brambles, only exposing himself when
he saw Joseph busy taking aim. Finally he arrived within two steps
of him without being seen. Then, stopping, he waited until Joseph
had reloaded his gun. Without suspecting the danger behind him, he
raised his gun to his shoulder to take aim; then we saw him lower it
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