him, too, to his eternal rest. How will their hearts swell within them when they hear many of the Greenlanders' voices joining in everlasting hallelujahs, and when they hear them exclaim, "You brought us here-by your precepts you brought us to Jesus-by your example you taught us to seek the sanctification of our souls and bodies!" Far, far indeed, above all heroes and conquerors of the earth, are those who, however humble or unknown, have laboured hard to save souls; for God's own Word hath said, "They that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament; and they that turn many to righteousness as the stars for ever and ever!" CONTENTMENT, SOME murmur when their sky is clear If one small speck of dark appear In their great heaven of blue; And some with thankful love are filled, One ray of God's great mercy, gild The darkness of their night. In palaces are hearts that ask And all good things denied ; DOMESDAY BOOK. RESPECTING the name of this celebrated record, the following account is given in Stow's Chronicle :—“The Booke of Bermondsay saith, this booke was laid up in the King's treasury, which was in the church of Winchester or Westminster, in a place called Domus Dei, or God's house, and so ye name of the booke is therefore called Domus Dei, and shortly Domesday. A VISIT TO THE BIRTHPLACE OF ST. BERNARD. MANY are the noble monuments and historical remembrances which impart an ever-vivid interest to the ancient capital of Burgundy; but while wandering amid princely halls and sculptures, which are the glory of mediæval art, there is one memory of the past which, above all others, presents itself with genial power to the imagination. It was here that St. Bernard passed his earlier years-it was in this neighbourhood that he first drew the breath of life; and although eight hundred years have fled away since his birth, yet still is his name remembered by many as a benefactor of the human race. It was a bright autumn day in 1852 when we set out to visit Fontaine, the birthplace of St. Bernard. It is a small village about two miles distant from Dijon. Our path lay between vineyards, whose branches had recently been despoiled of their precious burden, and which could no longer boast of any beauty save the tinted glow of declining age. As the open country was intersected with many narrow roads, we inquired of a comelylooking peasant woman which was the right way, whereon she informed us that she too was going to Fontaine, and courteously proposed to be our guide. The worthy dame abounded in smalltalk, and we found her gossip interesting in matter, and varied in its range. She detailed very graphically all the horrors of socialism, as it had stood revealed in the town of Dijon during the eventful year of 1848; and went on to describe the wholesale robbery and extermination of all "honnêtes gens," which would have infallibly been effected by its agents during the present year, but for the intervention of the President Louis Napoleon. Ah, a brave man, is he!" exclaimed our companion with much fervour, "he knows how to manage such rascals." 66 From these secular subjects she glided on with ease to ecclesiastical matters, and gave us an animated sketch of the most popular preachers at Dijon, naming their several merits and demerits with as much discernment as might have been done around an English tea-table, or a charitable coterie. By this time we were drawing near to Fontaine, which lay scattered upon the slope of one of those swelling eminences, so many of which rise up amid the broad flat plains of Burgundy, imparting a certain air of grace and dignity to the level richness of the country. The crest of the hill was crowned by the village church, an unpretending edifice, whose grey tower reminded us of many a parish church at home. Beneath it sloped down to the plain: some irregular streets composed of rustic dwellings, with here and there a farm-house, enclosed within its own court-yard, and shut in by a porte-cochère. At the entrance of the village, our sociable guide bade us farewell, saying that she was going to see a lady of her aquaintance. As we were wending our way up a steep and narrow street, we came upon a group of vintagers, who were gathered around a huge vat of wine, which had just been pressed out of the newlygathered grapes. Some fine-looking peasants were standing with long poles, whereon they were preparing to sling pails of wine, and carry them home, very much in the same fashion as was adopted by Caleb and Joshua, who after having "cut down one cluster of grapes, bare it between two upon a staff." It was a picturesque and pleasant sight, and not the less so because of the cheerful and comfortable aspect of the group before us. A few minutes more brought us to the summit of the hill. Upon a rocky mound, clothed with herbage, stood the humble village church. Close by it rose up a dilapidated edifice, upon the site of the castle within whose walls St. Bernard first saw the light. It is now inhabited by a farmer, and being a private dwelling, we could not gain access to it; but adjoining the house is a very pretty little chapel, dedicated to St. Bernard, and standing upon the very spot where he was born. We entered it with two or three peasant girls, who immediately prostrated themselves before the statue of the saint, which stands above the altar. On either side of the chancel was an ancient bronze relief, representing "Melchisedec's priesthood, a type of Christ," and "Isaac's sacrifice, a type of Christ's." "We pay great respect to St. Bernard in this place," observed the girl, who was our guide; and then she related the well-known tradition, that his mother in a moment of peril and of fear, had taken refuge in a cellar beneath the spot whereupon we were standing, and that there he was born. Part of the old moated wall in front of his father's castle, as also two of the ancient arched gateways, still exist. The rest of the buildings are of a more modern date. It was with a mingled feeling of awe and pleasure, that we stood upon the castle hill and gazed down upon the vine-clad plains of Burgundy, which stretched far away before us, bounded by the distant line of the Jura, while near at hand lay outspread the ancient city of Dijon, with its massive churches and Burgundian palace, rising up bold and proud amid the substantial dwellings of the citizens. On this self-same spot, doubtless, had St. Bernard often stood in thoughtful childhood, gazing out into the far shadowy distance; and while his eye was directed towards the east, may he not haply then have cherished his earliest visions of conquest over the Moslem and the infidel? How unchanged has been the outward aspect of this rich and noble landscape since the day when he beheld it! How changed is all beside! We could gladly have whiled away many an hour here before returning to the plain, but had not leisure to do so. The parish church stood invitingly open, and as we approached it, the voice of song met our ear. We found an interesting little congregation assembled within its walls, consisting of the village children and their priest. They were all singing a hymn-the air at once we recognized as that which is so commonly sung in our infant schools, to the words, "Oh! that will be joyful, joyful!" For a moment we might have fancied ourselves in dear old England again; but the illusion was necessarily a brief one, for we found the burden of the song here was: "Venons à Jesu et Marie;" and the latter word was so frequently repeated, that it seemed to be the master-key of the whole. Yes, "Marie" was the name upon which these young hearts were taught to dwell with the fondness of hope and love, rather than on that name "which is above every name," and which alone may rightly claim the adoring homage of the universe. On returning to the village, we observed a small antique image placed in a niche outside one of the houses, and bearing a scroll with this device: "Dieu est un Esprit, et celui qui l'adore, doit l'adore, en esprit et en verité."* Three or four youths were passing along, bearing over their shoulders long poles and winetubs in the manner already described. We inquired of them whether that was St. Bernard ? "No, St. Martin," was the brief reply. Another contradicted him, saying it was St. Antoine. "I thought that St. Bernard was your patron saint here," observed one of our party. "But do not think that he is our only saint," said one of them, brusquely; and then he went on naming St. Martin, St. Antoine, as well as other saints in the calendar; and while he and his companions continued their way down the village with the wine-pails swinging between them, we overheard a loud and animated discussion as to who the niched saint really was. We returned by a path which led us to the other end of Dijon a new quartier, where there are houses and crescents built professedly à l'Anglaise. In a wide open space stood a colossal statue of St. Bernard in bronze, with his hand outstretched, as if addressing the multitude; a fine statue and a noble attitude. The Gothic pedestal whereon it rests is sustained by a circling group of admirably-carved statues, representing the friends and contemporaries of St. Bernard, amongst whom were Peter the Hermit (le Venerable), Eugène III., Hugues le Bon, Louis le Quene, &c., &c. A crowd of people were gathered around the statue, which had been very recently "inaugurated," and divers were the shades of feeling with which it seemed to be regarded. Some turned away with a grimace; some shrugged their shoulders with careless nonchalance, as if it were a matter of unimportance whether the saint was there or not. A mother was gazing upward at it with her son, a boy of eleven or twelve years old. Here at least we expected to find some mark of reverence; they were comparing it with the statue of some general which they but no, God is a Spirit, and he who worships Him, must worship Him, in spirit and in truth. VOL. II. 2 L |