Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very

large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
Set up in a prominent position in the village, 21 where two roads meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very
large and newly painted. It is a realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly demonstrated, and the drawn lines
of agony in His face and limbs very much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts
her basket to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur her prayers; every
man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a
few moments before passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not an influence for good in the
village? Who is to say that the adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him? Religion has an immense hold
over the peasants of Brittany. It is the one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you
say, are dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their Bible history in a
thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them as something tangible to cling to, to believe
in. And the images in the churches—do you mean 22 to say that they have no influence for good on
the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and shaven head—what an influence
such a statue must have on the hearts of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly
feeling for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is resting his head so wearily on
the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and
they picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the saint looked like, what he
did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living,
vibrating reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children, boys especially, there is
St. Antoine to admire and imitate—St. Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with
the strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the habit of a nun, her arms full
of lilies, appeals to the hearts and imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently fine calibre to believe in a vague
Christ, a vague Virgin, vague saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the images,
men and women would not come to church, as they do at all 23 hours of the day, bringing their
market baskets and their tools with them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully,
two or three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going would then become a
bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see
the sufferings of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for us; also, there
is something infinitely comforting in the Divine Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and
white flowers, with hands outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and light them, and feel somehow or
other that they have indeed rid themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a hollow; but it is delightful to
take one of the mountain-paths, and go up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As
one sits on the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still save for the cawing of
some birds. You are out of the world up here. The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it
and you is the fertile valley, with green 24 fields and groves of bushy trees. The country is quite
cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling
the valley are of gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse and purple
heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and ominous. Evening is drawing on
as one walks down the mountain-path towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun
has been feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it. The green pines, with
their purple stems, are very beautiful against the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the
homesteads on the hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of flowers. There is a
sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying bracken, and always one hears the caw of
rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds, you feel glad to be alive. You
swing down the mountain-side quickly, and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with
a nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her grandest moods always
does. What rich colouring there is round about everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The 25
mountain-path leads, let us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you seem
to be walking in a forest of stems—long, slim, silver stems, purple in the shadows. On the ground is
a carpet of salmon and brown leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.