The Pilgrimage to Ars [pp. 24-31]

A Pilgrimage to Ars.
dangerously likely to come to pieces
on the road. Luckily, I am not naturally nervous in such matters, and,
consoling myself with the thought that
if we did get into grief the " bon cure"
was bound to come to my assistance,
seeing I had incurred it solely for the
sake of visiting his tomb, I was soon
settled as comfortably as circumstances
would permit, and we set off at a brisk
pace.
The country around Villefranche is
truly neither pretty nor picturesque;
and though we were not really an hour
on the road, the drive seemed tedious.
Our Jehu also, as it turned out, had
never been at Ars before; so that he had
not only to stop more than once to inquire the way, but actually contrived at
the very last to miss it. He soon discovered the mistake, however, and retracing his steps, a very few minutes
brought us to the spot where the-saint
had lived forty years, and where he
now sleeps in death. His house stands
beside the church, but a little in the
rear, so it does not immediately catch
the eye; and the church, where his real
life was spent, is separated from the
road by a small enclosure, railed off,
and approached by a few steps. We
looked around for some person to conduct us, but there was no one to be
seen; so, after a moment's hesitation,
we ascended the steps and entered the
church. If you wish to know what
kind of church it is, I cannot tell you.
I do not know, in fact, whether it is
Greek or Gothic, or of no particular
architecture at all; I do not know
even if it is in good taste or in bad
taste. The soul was so filled with a
sense of the presence of the dead saint
that it left no room for the outer sense
to take note of the accidents amid
which he had lived. There are two or
three small chapels-a Lady chapel,
one dedicated to the Sacred Heart, and
another to St. John the Baptist. There
is also the chapel of St. Philomena,
with a large lifelike image of the
"bonne petite sainte," to whom he loved
to attribute every miracle charity compelled him to; perform; and there is
the confessional, where for forty years
he worked far greater wonders on the
soul than any of the more obvious
ones he accomplished on the body.
All, or most of all, this I saw in a
vague soart of way, as one who saw
not; but the whole church was filled
with such an aroma of holiness, there
was such a sense of the actual presence of the man who had converted it
into a very tabernacle in the wilderness-a true Holy of Holies, where,
in the midst of infidel France, God
had descended and conversed almost
visibly with his people-that I had
neither the will nor the power to condescend to particulars, and examine it
in detail.
My one thought as I entered the
church was, to go and pray upon his
tomb; but in the first moment of doubt
and confusion I could not remember, if
indeed I had been told, the exact spot
where he was buried. The chapel of
St. Philomena was the first to attract
my notice, and feeling that I could not
be far wrong while keeping close to his
dear little patroness, I knelt down there
to collect my ideas.
The stillness of the church made
itself felt. There were indeed many
persons praying in it, but they prayed
in that profound silence which spoke
to the heart, and penetrated it in a way
no words could have ever done.
I was thirsting, however, to approach the tomb of the saint, and at
last ventured to whisper the question
to a person near me. She pointed to
a large black slab nearly in the centre
of the church, and told me that he lay
beneath it. Yes, he was there, in the
very midst of his people, not far from
the chapel of St. Philomena, and opposite to the altar whence he had so
many thousands of times distributed
the bread of life to the famishing souls
who, like the multitude of old, had
come into the desert, and needed to be
fed ere they departed to their homes.
Yes, he was there; and with a strange
mingling of joy and sorrow in the
thought I went and knelt down beside
himn
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