vision, so to speak,
as an interest of reflection--that is, if you choose to reflect (for
instance) upon the wondrous legend of the seven sleepers (you may see
where they lie in a row), who lived together--they were brothers and
cousins--in primitive piety, in the sanctuary constructed by the blessed
Saint Martin (emulous of his precursor, Saint Gatianus), in the face of
the hillside that overhung the Loire, and who, twenty-five years after
his death, yielded up their seven souls at the same moment and enjoyed
the rare convenience of retaining in their faces, in spite of mortality,
every aspect of health. The abbey of Marmoutier, which sprang from the
grottos in the cliff to which Saint Gatianus and Saint Martin retired to
pray, was therefore the creation of the latter worthy, as the other
great abbey, in the town proper, was the monument of his repose. The
cliff is still there; and a winding staircase, in the latest taste,
enables you conveniently to explore its recesses. These sacred niches
are scooped out of the rock, and will give you an impression if you
cannot do without one. You will feel them to be sufficiently venerable
when you learn that the particular pigeon-hole of Saint Gatianus, the
first Christian missionary to Gaul, dates from the third century. They
have been dealt with as the Catholic Church deals with most of such
places to-day; polished and furbished up, labelled and
ticketed--_edited_, with notes, in short, like an old book. The process
is a mistake--the early editions had more sanctity. The modern buildings
(of the Sacred Heart), on which you look down from these points of
vantage, are in the vulgar taste which sets its so mechanical stamp on
all new Catholic work; but there was nevertheless a great sweetness in
the scene. The afternoon was lovely, and it was flushing to a close. The
large garden stretched beneath us, blooming with fruit and and wine and
succulent promise, and beyond it flowed the shining river. The air was
still, the shadows were long, and the place, after all, was full of
memories, most of which might pass for virtuous. It certainly was better
than Plessis-les-Tours.

[Illustration]

Chapter iv

[Blois]

Your business at Tours is to make excursions; and if you make them all
you will be always under arms. The land is a rich reliquary, and an
hour's drive from the town in almost any direction will bring you to the
knowledge of some curious fragment of domestic or eccl