Lourdes

ts were one moving mass of pilgrims. From every corner came gusts of singing; and here and there through the crowd alread

itect. The arrangements for the pilgrims were as bad as possible; there was no order, no marshalling; they moved crowd against crowd like herds of bewildered sheep. Some were for Communion, some for Mass only, some for confession; and they pushed patiently this way and that in every direction. It was a struggle before I got my vestments; I produced

giving Communion when I had ended my thanksgiving. This, too, was the same everywhere-in the crypt, in the basilica, in the Rosary Church, and above all in the Grotto. The average number of Communions every day throughout the year in Lourdes is, I am told, four thousand. In that year of Jubilee, however, Dr. Boissarie inf

m to be the next on the list; I even answered his Kyrie. But at the Collect a frantic sacristan burst through the crowd; and from remarks made to the devout old priest and myself, I learned that the next

rom the terrace, the cliff fell straight away down to the roofs of the three chapel-like buildings, fifty or sixty feet beneath. Beyond that I could see the paved space, sprinkled with a few mo

their faces, wiping their lips, giving them to drink of the Grotto water. A murmur of thousands of footsteps came up from beneath (this National Pilgrimage of France numbered between eighty and an hundred thousand persons); and loud above the footsteps came the cries of the priests, as they stood in a long row facing the people, with arms extended in the form of a cross. Now and again came a far-off roar of sing

nce I saw a little procession go past from the Grotto, with the Blessed Sacrament in the midst. There was no sensation, no si

within a hundred yards of the Grotto. Once indeed I was happy to be able to fit a brancardier's straps into the poles that supported a sick woman. It was all most terrible and most beautiful. Figure after figure was passed along the seats-living crucifixes of pain-and lowered tenderly to the ground, to lie the

ow, and immediately a message came out from Dr. Cox that I was to be admitted. I passed through a barrier, thr

Down one side runs a table, at one end of which sits Dr. Cox; in the centre, facing the room, is the presiding doctor's c

ted the intestines.) On the table lay some curious brass objects, which I learned later were models of the bones of Pierre de Rudder's legs. (This man had for eight years suffered from a broken leg and two running wounds-one at the fracture, the other on the foot. These were gangrenous. The ends of the broken bones were seen immediately before the cure, which took place instantaneously at the shrine of O

, old, young, middle-aged. The cases were discussed with the utmost freedom. Any could ask questions of the miraculés or of the other doctors. The certificates of the sick were read aloud. I may observe, too, that if there was any doubt as to the certificates, if there was any question of a merely nervous malady, any conceivable possibility of a mistake, the case was dismissed abruptly. These certificates, th

r kind. They tried to pose him with questions. It was unheard of, they cried, that a man born blind should receive his sight; at least it could not have been as he said. Yet there stood the man in the m

BOIS

through my stay showed me great kindness), and began to ask me questions. It seemed that, since there was no physical miraculé present just now, a spiritual miraculé would do a

ine Leader-an authority-t

tures and in history; it was the supernatural unity of the Churc

the grace of God,"

slowly and deliberately; he is a fervent Catholic. He is very sharp and businesslike, but there is an air of wonderful goodness and kindness about him

o asks questions now and again. It was he who gave me the "doctor's cross," and who later obtained for me an even more exceptional favour, of which I shall speak i

coming. I ran to the window that looks toward the Grotto; and there, sitting by an Assumptionist Father-one of that

ain that kind of face which a foolish Briton is accustomed to regard as absurd-a military, musketeer profile, immense moustaches and imperial, and hair en brosse. Yet indeed there was nothing absurd. It was terribly moving, and a lump rose in my throat, as I watched such a sanguine bristling face as one of these, all alight with passion and adoration. Such a ma