A tender little hand.
Without the portal, waiting thee,
Two feet, way-weary, stand.
So oft to-night that hand hath knocked,
So often been denied;
O wavering soul! ope thou thy house,
Bid this child-beggar bide.
Without the bitter moonlight casts
Cold glitter on the snow;
With icy fingers ‘mid the boughs
The wind wakes sounds of woe;
Unclouded is the light of stars
Filling the frosty blue;
Yet, heedless of the winter chill,
A childish voice doth sue:
“Open, dear love, and let me in,
The world without is cold;
In the warm shelter of thy heart
I pray thee me enfold.
Weary I wander forth to-night,
I knock at many a door,
I call, but seems my voice too weak
To rise the bleak wind o’er.
“A little exile here I stand,
Begging an easy grace—
Beside thy hearth this biting night
A little resting-place.”
O patient voice! O weary feet!
O soul! be thou beguiled,
Thy bolts undo, thy bars let fly,
Keep Love no more exiled.
’Tis Love that knocks and begs for love
In that soft, childish tone,
Who pleads a beggar at thy gate,
Whose right is thy heart’s throne.
Open, dear heart, and do not fear;
With him can enter in
Not any ill—nay, from his hand
Thou shalt all blessing win.
Though heaped thy house with treasure rare
Ah! do not Love deny;
He may not seek thee any more,
Scorning to-night his cry.
And do not fear that thou shalt find
A little rosy elf
With laughing eyes that look through tears
That pity but himself.
No fretful, pouting lips are his
Who waiteth at thy gate;
No querulous tone shall dim his voice
Who knocks so long and late;
His are no folded rainbow wings
Wherewith he may ensure
His safe retreat when his weak faith
No longer shall endure.
He bears no burden of barbed shafts;
A cross his quiver is,
And of a crown of thorns his brow
Beareth the cruelties;
His feet are pierced with wounds whose stain
Lies on the moonlit snow,
And in his tender baby hands
Twin blood-red roses blow.
Beneath the cross and crowning thorn
Infinite peace doth shine.
Ah! open quick. O doubting heart!
Let in this Love Divine.
Have thou no fear of heavy cross—
His shoulders bear its weight;
The thorny wreath with sharp, strong touch
Shall joy undreamed create.
These infant lips shall bless thy tears,
This tender voice give peace;
The hand that begs thy grace to-night
Shall sign thy woe’s release.
He asks so little, gives so much,
And sigheth to give more
Who, patient in the wintry world,
Stands knocking at thy door.
Hasten, my soul, let Him not wait;
Fling thy heart’s portal wide;
Bid thou this weary little Child
Fore’er with thee abide.
Kneel thou a beggar at his feet
Who begs to-night of thee;
No alteration knows this Love
Born of eternity.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE ISLES OF LÉRINS.
There like a jewel in the Midland Sea
Far off discerned, the isle of Lérins hangs
Upon the coast of Provence, no fit haunt,
As from its beauty might at first appear,
For summer revel or a moonlit masque,
But where in studious cloister Vincent lived
And taught, and, in the simple panoply
Of Catholic tradition armed, struck down
The heretics.
—FABER.
The town of Cannes, to which so many English and Americans resort on
account of its delicious climate, its healing air, and the lovely
shores where grow the olive and the vine, has, too, its balmy
atmosphere for the soul. All the neighboring heights are clothed with
the mystic lore of mediæval saint and chapel, the waves of the azure
sea still seem to move to the holy impulses that once swept the air,
and across the beautiful bay are two fair isles at the entrance—St.
Marguerite, associated in most persons’ minds with the prison in which
was confined the mysterious Man of the Iron Mask, but once was more
happily peopled with
“Virgins good
Who gave their days to heaven”;
and St. Honorat, the Happy Isle (_beata illa insula_), as it was once
called, famous for its ancient monastery, that played so glorious a
_rôle_ in the religious history of Gaul. These are the isles of Lérins,
two gems of that collar of pearls thrown by God around the
Mediterranean Sea, to quote St. Ambrose, where once those who would
escape from the perilous charms of the world found refuge.
The island of St. Honorat is now occupied by the Cistercians, and early
one morning, soon after our arrival at Cannes, we went in search of the
boat they send to the mainland every day for their necessary supplies.
We were so fortunate as to find on board a young monk of great
intelligence, who was well versed in all the traditions of Lérins and
the surrounding region. He kindly volunteered to become our guide, and
proved an invaluable one. The islands are between two and three miles
distant, and we were about an hour in crossing. A sail on those blue
waters, in sight of their shores of radiant beauty, is always a
delight, but especially so on a lovely day such as we had chosen, in
the middle of October, with just air enough—and what soft air it
was!—to ripple the sea and make it give out a thousand flashes from the
tiny waves. We first came to St. Marguerite, which is the largest of
the islands. It is seven kilometres in circumference, oval in shape,
and almost entirely covered with maritime pines. It looks indeed like a
gem, this emerald isle rising out of the sea of dazzling gold. It is
said to have once borne the name of Léro, from some person of ancient
times whose prowess excited the admiration of his contemporaries, and
the sister isle took the diminutive of this name—Lérina. St. Honorat is
said to have overthrown the temple of the deified Léro, and perhaps
built the church early erected here in honor of the illustrious virgin
martyr of Antioch. An old legend says when he retired to the
neighboring isle his sister Margaret came here to live, and gathered
around her a community of pious maidens, to whom the sea, as it were,
offered its mystic veil. As Lérina was interdicted to women, she begged
St. Honorat to visit her frequently, and complained that her wish was
so seldom gratified. On the other hand, the saint feared that he held
converse with his sister too often, and thought such visits disturbed
his recollection in prayer. At length he told her he should restrict
his visits to a periodical one, and selected the time when the
cherry-trees should be in bloom—meaning, of course, once a year.
Margaret wept and entreated, but nothing could change his resolution.
Then she declared God would be less inflexible, and, in answer to the
prayers she addressed to him, a cherry-tree planted on the shore put
forth its snowy blossoms every month. Honorat no longer felt disposed
to resist, and whenever he saw their white banner on St. Marguerite’s
Isle he crossed the water, which became solid under his feet.
This island is also said to have afforded a secret asylum to the monks
called to the contemplative life, or who wished to pass some time in
utter solitude. Little is known of these lofty contemplatives, but it
is believed that it was here St. Vincent of Lérins wrote his immortal
work, the _Commonitorium_. St. Eucher also dwelt here for a time, and
here received letters from St. Paulinus of Nola, who, like him, had
abandoned the world.
It is melancholy that an isle, once consecrated to virginal purity and
holy contemplation, should become a place of expiation for criminals,
and that the most noted of its prisoners should almost efface the
memory of St. Vincent and St. Margaret.
St. Honorat is just beyond the island of St. Marguerite. It is a low,
flat island, also oval in form, only about a mile in length, and three
kilometres in circumference.
“Parva, sed felix meritis Lérina,
Quam Paraclito, Genito, Patrique
Rité quingenti roseo dicârunt
Sanguine testes”
—Lérins is small in extent, but illustrious by its glory; five hundred
martyrs have worthily consecrated it to the Father, the Son, and the
Holy Ghost by shedding their noble blood, says Gregorius Cortesius.
Along the edge is a line of low, craggy rocks, called monks or
brothers, which protect the shore from the encroachment of the waves.
At the east are some little islets, the largest of which bears the name
of St. Féréol, who, according to tradition, was here martyred by the
Saracens and received burial.
The numerous trees that formerly grew on St. Honorat gave it the poetic
title of the _aigrette de la mer_, but they are all gone except a few
olives in the centre, and a girdle of pines along the shore which
protect the interior from the winds injurious to vegetation, and serve
as an agreeable promenade. But no, there is one more tree—it is rather
a monument—the ancient palm of St. Honorat, which stands before the
door of the conventual church. “Honor thy paternal aunt, the
palm-tree,” says the prophet of Islam, “for she was created in Paradise
and of the same earth from which Adam was made!” Let us especially
honor this legendary palm; for if we understood, as the rabbis say
Abraham did, the language of its leaves, that never cease their
mysterious murmuring, even on a windless day, what a page in the
history of the church we should learn!
A legend tells us that the island in ancient times was infested with
venomous serpents, of which a frightful picture was drawn by the
inhabitants of the mainland to retain St. Honorat at Cap Roux, whither
he at first went on retiring from the world. When the saint arrived at
Lérina, and beheld their number and size, he prostrated himself on the
ground and cried to the Lord to exterminate them, and they all died at
once. Their bodies infecting the air, the saint climbed a palm-tree and
prayed to Him who had led him into this solitude, and the waves of the
sea immediately rose and swept over the isle, carrying off the serpents
that covered it.
This miracle of the palm, as it is called, is attested by St. Hilaire,
who passed several years as a monk at Lérins, and speaks of the numbers
of serpents that still infested the neighboring shores. At all events,
this isle, like Ireland, is free from them to this day, though they are
to be found on St. Marguerite, which is not saying much for the
gallantry of St. Honorat. This palm-tree has always been regarded with
great veneration, and the legend was represented on the old shrine of
St. Honorat—the saint in the palm-tree, and the waves sweeping the
serpents into the sea. And on the arms of Lérins the abbatial crosier
is placed between two palms.
Under the care of St. Honorat and his disciples the aspect of the
island was before long so changed that St. Eucher, one of the first to
inhabit it, says: “Watered by gushing fountains, rich with verdure,
brilliant with flowers, odorous with sweet perfumes, and with
delightful views on every side, it seems to those who inhabit it the
very image of heaven toward which tend all their desires.” And Isidore,
the monk, speaking of its eternal verdure, exclaims: “_Pulchrior in
toto non est locus orbe Lerina_”—No, the universe presents not a more
beautiful spot than Lérins.
But it appears that the holy cenobites suffered greatly at first from
the want of pure water, and at length they came one day and prostrated
themselves at St. Honorat’s feet, beseeching him to obtain by his
prayers what nature had refused to the island. “Go, brethren,” he
replied, “and dig perseveringly in the centre of the isle between the
two palms. [It appears there were two then, as on the arms.] God, who
has created the living springs of the earth, is sufficiently powerful
to grant what you ask with faith.” The monks set to work with ardor,
and dug till they came to a solid rock, without finding water or the
least sign of humidity. Discouraged, they returned to St. Honorat, who
ordered them to attack the live rock and confide in the Lord. They
returned obediently to the task, and succeeded in excavating a few feet
deeper, but still without any result, and they finally requested
permission to try another spot; but St. Honorat went with unshaken
faith to the place and descended into the pit. After praying to the
Lord he smote the rock thrice in the name of the Holy Trinity, and an
abundant stream gushed forth. Such is the tradition of Lérins, founded
on the testimony of SS. Eucher and Hilaire, who both lived with St.
Honorat. St. Eucher says the waters rose to the surface and spread over
the land around. There is nothing miraculous in the present appearance
of the well, but an old farmer of this region, who has been down
several times to clean it out, says the water issues from four
different points, as from the extremities of a cross. It is now covered
with a little rotunda, and over the entrance is an inscription in Latin
to this purpose:
“The leader of the hosts of Israel made sweet the bitter waters; his
rod brought forth a stream from the rock. Behold here the fountain that
sprang up from the hard rock, the sweet water that welled from the
bosom of the sea. Honorat smote the rock, and abundant waters gushed
forth, thus renewing at once the prodigies Moses wrought with the tree
and the rod.”
Everywhere on the island are _débris_ of all kinds—hewn stones, old
cement, bricks of Roman type, fragments of inscriptions, etc. The soil
is red and stony. The centre is partly cultivated, and bears a few
grapes, olives, and vegetables. The Cistercians, who have been here
eight years, have built a new convent near one end, which includes part
of the old abbey and St. Honorat’s palm. This is enclosed by a high
wall, as if they were not girt about by the great deep, and beyond this
wall no woman is permitted to go. Even the Duchess of Vallombrosa, the
great benefactress of the house, has been allowed to enter but once,
and then as part of a suite of a princess to whom the pope had given a
special permission. But there are some low buildings without the walls
where pilgrims can find shelter, even those of the obnoxious sex, and
be provided with refreshments. There are about fifty monks in the
community, one of them a novice of sixteen, who looked like an
anachronism in his Cistercian robes. Near the monastery is an orphan
asylum containing about thirty boys under the care of Brother Boniface.
They are taught trades, and for this purpose there are joiner’s shops,
a printing establishment, etc., on the island.
While the monks were attending some rite we made the entire circuit of
the island, following the path among the odorous pines on the shore,
calm, peaceful, and embowered as the arcades of a cloister. These tall
pines are aslant, as if bent by the winds, and the foliage, high up in
the air, shelters from the sun, without excluding the sea breeze or
obstructing the view. Everywhere was the flash of the waves, and the
mysterious sound of the waters that gently broke upon the shore of this
happy isle, mingled, as in the olden time, with the solemn measure of
holy psalmody. It was delightful to wander in this lone aisle of
nature, and drink in the beauty of sea and land, and give one’s self up
to the memories that embalm the place.
It was early in the fifth century when St. Honorat established himself
here. He belonged to a patrician race, and his father, to divert his
mind from religious things, sent him at an early age to the East with
his brother Venance, who was of a livelier turn. Venance, however, soon
yielded to Honorat’s moral ascendency, but died at Messenia, and the
latter returned sorrowfully to Gaul with St. Caprais, his spiritual
guide, who had accompanied them. For some time he lived as a hermit in
a cave at Cap Roux. Then he came to Lérins, where numerous disciples
gathered around him who are now numbered among the most eminent
churchmen of Gaul. Maxime, Bishop of Riez, Hilary of Arles, Jacques of
Tarentaise, Vincent of Saintes, Fauste of Riez, Ausile of Fréjus, were
all formed in his school of Christian philosophy. St. Eucher, whom
Bossuet calls “the great Eucher,” here forgot his noble birth and
attained the sanctity which raised him to the see of Lyons. Salvian,
surnamed “the Master of Bishops,” and styled “the Jeremias of his age,”
on account of his lamentations over the woes and corruptions of the
world, here wrote his treatise on the government of God. Cassian, after
long journeys and great sorrows, spent a year at Lérins before he
founded the abbey of St. Victor at Marseilles. St. Patrick, according
to the tradition of the island, passed long years here in prayer and
frightful austerities. St. Vincent of Lérins here wrote those works
which have made him an authority in the church. St. Cæsarius also, who
became one of the most influential bishops of southern Gaul, and St.
Loup of Troyes, who inspired so much deference in Attila, the Scourge
of God, were among the first disciples of St. Honorat, and many more,
some of whom have left no name on earth, but whose names are written in
the Lamb’s Book of Life. “How many assemblies of saints have I seen in
this isle!” cries St. Eucher—“precious vases, which spread abroad the
sweet perfume of their virtues.” And St. Sidonius Apollinaris, with a
bolder figure, says:
“Quanto illa insula plana
Miserit ad cœlum montes!”
—How many lofty mountains rise toward heaven from this low isle! And
St. Cæsarius of Arles: “Happy, blessed isle of Lérins, thou art small
and level, but from thee have risen innumerable mountains!” Over forty
saints are mentioned by name in the Litany of Lérins, besides the
hundreds of martyrs who are invoked.
Salvian thus alludes to the paternal rule of St. Honorat: “As the sun
changes the aspect of the firmament by its splendor or obscurity, so
joy and sadness are diffused among those who, under his paternal
guidance, aim at heaven and devote themselves to the angelic functions.
If Honorat suffers, all suffer; restored to health, all return to new
life.”
Lérins became so renowned as a school of theology that, in the seventh
century, there were three thousand and seven hundred monks, and the
Christian world sent here to obtain its bishops and the directors for
its monasteries. It was in this century that St. Aygulph established
here the rule of St. Benedict. In the eighth century, when the Saracens
invaded the island, more than five hundred monks fell victims to their
hatred of Christianity. Eleuthère, by the aid of King Pepin, restored
the ruined buildings, but the enemy returned again, committing fresh
ravages, and, indeed, devastating the island. These attacks at length
became so frequent that the pope granted indulgences to all who would
aid in defending it against the infidel. Whosoever devoted himself to
this good work for the space of three months acquired the same
indulgences as a pilgrim to the Holy Places at Jerusalem, and minor
ones were accorded to those who sent substitutes. In 1088 was erected
the lofty citadel, which is still the most prominent object on the
island, as a retreat for the monks in time of danger. It was connected
with the abbey by a subterranean passage. This is now a picturesque
ruin. It is on the eastern shore of the island, and rises directly out
of the water. The massive walls of hewn stone have acquired a soft,
mellow tint that contrasts admirably with the sky and sea. They are
scarred with many a cannon-ball that tells of more than one rude
assault.
Here and there are narrow loop-holes, and high up in the air is a line
of battlements that still seem to defy both the sea and the Moor. There
was formerly a drawbridge, and nothing was lacking necessary to sustain
a siege. This stronghold formed part of a line of signals along the
sea-coast. It was four or five stories high, and contained four
kitchens, several chapels, thirty-six cells for the monks and five for
strangers, with cisterns, and everything to render it a complete
monastery as well as castle. The Père Antonin was our guide around this
interesting ruin. It is entered by a spiral staircase, which brought us
into a small court or cloister with several galleries around it, one
above the other, communicating with the different stories, sustained by
pillars of marble, porphyry, and granite. Old fragments of carved
capitals, and inscriptions, some Roman, some Christian, were scattered
here and there. In the centre is an immense cistern, paved with marble,
which contains a never-failing supply of water. This was constructed by
Gastolius de Grasse, who, having lost his wife and children, retired to
the island to console himself with the thought of heaven and eternal
reunion, devoting his whole fortune to the poor and the improvement of
the monastery. The old chapter-room is utterly ruined. Its arches were
blown up by some Scotchman in his attempts to find the supposed
treasure of St. Honorat, and the rank grass is growing from the
accumulated soil. There is the old refectory with its crumbling pulpit,
and, in the next room, the lavatory of calcareous stone, like an
ancient sarcophagus, where the monks washed their hands before entering
the refectory. On it is graven in Latin: “O Christ! by thy right hand,
which can cleanse us within and without, purify our souls, which this
water cannot cleanse.” Then there is the chapel which once contained
the relics of SS. Honorat,[167] Caprais, Venance, Aygulph, etc., and
the three sacred altars to which indulgences were attached at the
request of the Emperor Charles V. The chapel of Notre Dame de Pitié, or
of the dead, was used for domestic purposes by some layman who held the
island after the Revolution, and the place where once rose the solemn
requiem and the odor of incense was now filled with the fumes of a
kitchen. We went up, still by the spiral staircase, to the battlements.
Here we looked down on the whole island. Before us was stretched the
neighboring shore with fair towns and villages from Cannes to Nice,
with the purple mountains in the background. On the other hand, in the
distance, rose the mountains of Corsica. And all around was the sea
that bathes the shores of so many storied lands.
With increased means of defence the prosperity of the abbey revived. It
had the exclusive right, conferred by the counts of Provence, of
fishing in the surrounding waters. It owned numerous priories all along
the coast from Genoa to Barcelona, as well as in the interior. And it
continued to be a centre from which radiated light, and many a person
escaped from the _Mare Magnum_ of the profane world to this haven of
spiritual rest. We read that Bertrand, Bishop of Fréjus in the eleventh
century, retired to St. Honorat (as the bishop of Valence has recently
done) and died here in the odor of sanctity. For those who wished to
lead the eremitical life there were formerly many cells around the
island. How dear this holy retreat was to its inmates may be seen by a
letter from Denis Faucher, whose duties retained him from the isle, to
his superior: “My thoughts turn eagerly towards Lérins. Sad, I bewail
my long exile. In spite of my oft-renewed entreaties, you defer my
deliverance. A cruel grief torments my desolate soul. I love not these
magnificent palaces. Let kings inhabit them. For them, they gleam with
marble; for me, the desert and the lonely shore. That little isle
suffices for my happiness.”
Around the island were seven small chapels, or oratories, mostly on the
shore, to which, like the seven stations at Rome, great indulgences
were attached. These were successively visited by the pilgrims as a
preparation for receiving the Holy Eucharist.
The tombs of the saints, the holy chapels, the soil impregnated with
the blood of the martyrs, and the wondrous history of the island, gave
it a glorious prestige that made it not only a resort for pilgrims, but
even the dead were brought across the waters, with crucifix and
lanterns held aloft in the boats, and chants mingling with the sad
murmur of the waves, to be laid in this consecrated isle. Many remains
of their marble tombs are still to be found.
We, too, made the stations of the seven holy chapels, though they are
mostly in ruins. That of the Holy Trinity, in the eastern part of the
island, is the most ancient. Its walls of massive stones are still
erect. It is a Romanesque chapel, with three bays, the remains of an
ancient porch, and vaults beneath for recluses or the dead. But the
windows are gone, and rank weeds grow in the interior.
Only a few traces remain of St. Cyprian’s chapel; not St. Cyprian who
shed his blood at Carthage, but St. Cyprian of Lérins, surnamed the
Magician, who is honored September 26.