I do not envy those who can see in them
nothing but the expression of a pitiable superstition; to my
mind they appeal to far wider sympathies, as one thinks of the
sick and weary hearts who have come there to seek consolation
and help. Everywhere one comes across these shrines--in the
gloom of some great Cathedral, in some homely village church,
in some humble wayside chapel, where, amidst sunny fields and
pastures, amidst mountains, streams, and lakes, one reads the
little heart-broken scrawls affixed to the grating, praying an
Ave-Maria or Paternoster from the passer-by, for a sick
person, for a mother watching beside her dying child, for a
woman forsaken of the world. A whole atmosphere of consecrated
suffering seems to float round these spots sacred to sorrow,
the sorrow that humbly appeals, as it best knows how, to the
love, wide enough to embrace and comfort all desolate, and
yearning, and heavy-laden souls.
One can fancy Madelon as she walks along the dim church; one
or two lights twinkle here and there in the darkness, the
taper she holds shines on her little pale face, and her brown
eyes are lighted up with a sudden glow of enthusiasm,
devotion, supplication, as she kneels for a moment before the
Virgin's altar, with an Ave-Maria on her lips, and an unspoken
prayer in her heart.
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