I never left any place with more secret satisfaction than I did Barcelona; exclusive of the entertainment I was prepared to expect, by visiting this holy mountain; nor have I been disappointed; but on the contrary, found it, in every respect, infinitely superior to the various accounts I had heard of it;—to give a perfect description of it is impossible;—to do that it would require some of those attributes which the Divine Power by whose almighty handy it was raised, is endowed with. It is called Montserrat, or Mount-Scie,[C] by the Catalonians, words which signify a cut or sawed mountain; and so called from its singular and extraordinary form; for it is so broken, so divided, and so crowned with an infinite number of spiring cones, or Pine heads, that it has the appearance, at distant view, to be the work of man; but upon a nearer approach, to be evidently raised by Him alone, to whom nothing is impossible. It looks, indeed, like the first rude sketch of God's work; but the design is great, and the execution such, that it compels all men who approach it, to lift up their hands and eyes to heaven, and to say,—Oh God!—How wonderful are all Thy works!
It is no wonder then, that such a place should be fixed upon for the residence of holy and devout men; for there is not surely upon the habitable globe a spot so properly adapted for retirement and contemplation; it has therefore, for many ages, been inhabited only by monks and hermits, whose first vow is, never to forsake it;—a vow, without being either a hermit or a monk, I could make, I think, without repenting.
If it be true, and some great man has said so, that "whosoever delighteth in solitude, is either a wild beast, or a God;" the inhabitants of this spot are certainly more than men; for no wild beast dwells here. But it is the place, not the people, I mean at present to speak of. It stands in a vast plain, seven leagues they call it, but it is at least thirty miles from Barcelona, and nearly in the center of the principality of Catalonia. The height of it is so very considerable, that in one hour's slow travelling towards it, after we left Barcelona, it shewed its pointed steeples, high over the lesser mountains, and seemed so very near, that it would have been difficult to have persuaded a person, not accustomed to such deceptions, in so clear an atmosphere to believe, that we had much more than an hour's journey to arrive at it; instead of which, we were all that day in getting to Martorel, a small city, still three leagues distant from it, where we lay at the Three Kings, a pretty good inn, kept by an insolent imposing Italian. Martorel stands upon the steep banks of the river Lobregate, over which there is a modern bridge, of a prodigious height, the piers of which rest on the opposite shore, against a Roman triumphal arch of great solidity, and originally of great beauty. I think I tell you the truth when I say, that I could perceive the convent, and some of the hermitages, when I first saw the mountain, at above twenty miles distance. From Martorel, however, they were as visible as the mountain itself, to which the eye was directed, down the river, the banks of which were adorned with trees, villages, houses, &c. and the view terminated by this the most glorious monument in nature. When I first saw the mountain, it had the appearance of an infinite number of rocks cut into conical forms, and built one upon another to a prodigious height. Upon a nearer view, each cone appeared of itself a mountain; and the tout ensemble compose an enormous mass of the Lundus Helmonti, or plumb-pudding stone, fourteen miles in circumference, and what the Spaniards call two leagues in height. As it is like unto no other mountain, so it stands quite unconnected with any, though not very distant from some very lofty ones. Near the base of it, on the south side, are two villages, the largest of which is Montrosol; but my eyes were attracted by two ancient towers, which flood upon a hill near Colbaton, the smallest, and we drove to that, where we found a little posada, and the people ready enough to furnish us with mules and asses, for we were now become quite impatient to visit the hallowed and celebrated convent, De Neustra Senora; a convent, to which pilgrims resort from the furthest parts of Europe, some bearing, by way of penance, heavy bars of iron on their backs, others cutting and slashing their naked bodies with wire cords, or crawling to it on all-fours, like the beasts of the field, to obtain forgiveness of their sins, by the intercession of our Lady of Montserrat.
When we had ascended a steep and rugged road, about one hour, and where there was width enough, and the precipices not too alarming, to give our eyes the utmost liberty, we had an earnest of what we were to expect above, as well as the extensive view below; our impatience to see more was encreased by what we had already seen; the majestic convent opened to us a view of her venerable walls; some of the hermits' cells peeped over the broken precipices still higher; while we, glutted with astonishment, and made giddy with delight and amazement, looked up at all with a reverential awe, towards that God who raised the Piles, and the holy men who dwell among them.—Yes, Sir,—we caught the holy flame; and I hope we came down better, if not wiser, than we went up. After ascending full two hours and a half more, we arrived on a flat part on the side, and about the middle of the mountain, on which the convent is built; but even that flat was made so by art, and at a prodigious expence. Here, however, was width enough to look securely about us; and, good God! what an extensive field of earth, air, and sea did it open! the ancient towers, which at first attracted my notice near Colbaton, were dwindled into pig-sties upon a mounticule. At length, and a great length it was, we arrived at the gates of the Sanctuary; on each side of which, on high pedestals, stand the enormous statues of two saints; and nearly opposite, on the base of a rock, which leans in a frightful manner over the buildings, and threatens destruction to all below, a great number of human sculls are fixed in the form of a cross. Within the gate is a square cloister, hung round with paintings of the miracles performed by the Holy Virgin, with votive offerings, &c. It was Advent week, when none of the monks quit their apartments, but one whose weekly duty it was to attend the call of strangers; nor did the whole community afford but a single member (pere tendre, a Fleming) who could speak French. It was Pere Pascal, by whom we were shewn every mark of politeness and attention, which a man of the world could give, but administered with all that humility and meekness, so becoming a man who had renounced it. He put us in possession of a good room, with good beds; and as it was near night, and very cold, he ordered a brazier of red-hot embers into our apartment; and having sent for the cook of the strangers' kitchen, (for there are four public kitchens) and ordered him to obey our commands, he retired to evening vespers; after which he made us a short visit, and continued to do so, two or three times every day, while we staid. Indeed, I began to fear we staid too long, and told him so; but he assured me the apartment was ours for a month or two, if we pleased. During our stay, he admitted me into his apartments, and filled my box with delicious Spanish snuff, and shewed us every attention we would wish, and much more than, as unrecommended strangers, we could expect. All the poor who come here are fed gratis for three days, and all the sick received in the hospital. Sometimes, on particular festivals, seven thousand arrive in one day; but people of condition pay a reasonable price for what they eat. There was before our apartment a long covered gallery; and tho' we were in a deep recess of the rocks, which projected wide and high on our right and left, we had in front a most extensive view of the world below, and the more distant Mediterranean Sea. It was a moon-light night; and, in spite of the cold, it was impossible to be shut out of the enchanting lights and shades which her silver beams reflected on the rude rocks above, beneath, and on all sides of us.—Every thing was as still as death, till the sonorous convent bell warned the Monks to midnight prayer. At two o'clock, we heard some of the tinkling bells of the hermits' cells above give notice, that they too were going to their devotion at the appointed hour: after which I retired to my bed; but my mind was too much awakened to permit me to sleep; I was impatient for the return of day-light, that I might proceed still higher; for, miser like, tho' my coffers were too full, I coveted more; and accordingly, after breakfast, we eagerly set our feet to the first round of the hermit's ladder; it was a stone one indeed, but stood in all places dreadfully steep, and in many almost perpendicular. After mounting up a vast chasm in the rock, yet full of trees and shrubs, about a thousand paces, fatigued in body, and impatient for a safe resting place, we arrived at a small hole in the rock, through which we were glad to crawl; and having got to the secure side of it, prepared ourselves, by a little rest, to proceed further; but not, I assure you, without some apprehensions, that if there was no better road down, we must have become hermits. After a second clamber, not quite so dreadful as the first, but much longer, we got into some flowery and serpentine walks, which lead to two or three of the nearest hermitages then visible, and not far off, one of which hung over so horrible a precipice, that it was terrifyingly picturesque. We were now, however, I thought, certainly in the garden of Eden! Certain I am, Eden could not be more beautifully adorned; for God alone is the gardener here also; and consequently, every thing prospered around us which could gratify the eye, the nose and, the imagination.
For the myrtle, the eglantine, the jessamin, and all the smaller kind of aromatic shrubs and flowers, grew on all sides thick and spontaneously about us; and our feet brushed forth the sweets of the lavender, rosemary and thyme, till we arrived at the first, and peaceful hermitage of Saint Tiago. We took possession of the holy inhabitants little garden, and were charmed with the neatness, and humble simplicity, which in every part characterised the possessor. His little chapel, his fountain, his vine arbor, his stately cypress, and the walls of his cell, embraced on all sides with ever-greens, and adorned with flowers, rendered it, exclusive of its situation, wonderfully pleasing. His door, however, was fast, and all within was silent; but upon knocking, it was opened by the venerable inhabitant: he was cloathed in a brown cloth habit, his beard was very long, his face pale, his manners courteous; but he seemed rather too deeply engaged in the contemplation of the things of the next world, to lose much of his time with such things as us. We therefore, after peeping into his apartments, took his benediction, and he retired, leaving us all his worldly possessions, but his straw bed, his books, and his beads. This hermitage is confined between two pine heads, within very narrow bounds; but it is artfully fixed, and commands at noon day a most enchanting prospect to the East and to the North. Though it is upwards of two thousand three hundred paces from the convent, yet it hangs so directly over it, that the rocks convey not only the sound of the organ, and the voices of the monks singing in the choir, but you may hear men in common conversation from the piazza below.
This is a long letter; but I know you would not willingly have left me in the midst of danger, or before I was safe arrived at the first stage towards heaven, and seen one humble host on God's high road.
P.S. At two o'clock, after midnight, these people rise, say mass, and continue the remainder of the night in prayer and contemplation. The hermits tell you, it was upon high mountains that God chose to manifest his will:—fundamenta ejus in montibus sanctis, say they;—they consider these rocks as symbols of their penitence, and mortifications; and their being so beautifully covered with fine flowers, odoriferous and rare plants, as emblems of the virtue and innocence of the religious inhabitants; or how else, say they, could such rocks produce spontaneously flowers in a desart, which surpass all that art and nature combined can do, in lower and more favourable soils? They may well think so; for human reason cannot account for the manner by which such enormous quantities of trees, fruits, and flowers are nourished, seemingly without soil. But that which established a church and convent on this mountain, was the story of a hermit who resided here many years; this was Juan Guerin, who lived on this mountain alone, the austerity of whose life was such, that the people below believed he subsisted without eating or drinking. As some very extraordinary circumstances attended this man's life, all which are universally believed here, it may not be amiss to give you some account of him:—You must know, Sir, then, that the devil envying the happiness of this good man equipped himself in the habit of a hermit, and possessed himself of a cavern in the same mountain, which still bears the name of the Devil's Grot; after which he took occasion to throw himself in the way of poor Guerin, to whom he expressed his surprize at seeing one of his own order dwell in a place he thought an absolute desert; but thanked God, for giving him so fortunate a meeting. Here the devil, and Guerin became very intimate, and conversed much together on spiritual matters; and things went on well enough between them for a while, when another devil chum to the first, possessed the body of a certain Princess, daughter of a Count of Barcelona, who became thereby violently tormented with horrible convulsions. She was taken to the church by her afflicted father. The dæmon who possessed her, and who, spoke for her, said, that nothing could relieve her from her sufferings but the prayers of a devout and pious hermit, named Guerin, who dwelt on Montserrat. The father, therefore, immediately repaired to Guerin, and besought his prayers and intercession for the recovery of his daughter. It so happened (for so the devil would have it) that this business could not be perfectly effected in less than nine days; and that the Princess must be left that time alone with Guerin in his cave. Poor Guerin, conscious of his frail nature, opposed this measure with all his might; but there was no resisting the argument and influence of the devil, and she was accordingly left. Youth, beauty, a cave, solitude, and virgin modesty, were too powerful not to overcome even the chaste vows and pious intentions of poor Guerin. The devil left the virgin, and possessed the saint. He consulted his false friend, and told him how powerful this impure passion was become, and his intentions of flying from the danger; but the devil advised him to return to his cell, and pray to God to protect him from sin. Guerin took his council, returned and fell into the fatal snare. The devil then persuaded him to kill the Princess, in order to conceal his guilt, and to tell her father she had forsaken his abode while he was intent on prayer. Guerin did so; but became very miserable, and at length determined to make a pilgrimage to Rome, to obtain a remission of his complicated crimes. The Pope enjoined him to return to Montserrat, on all fours, and to continue in that state, without once looking up to heaven, for the space of seven years, or 'till a child of three months old told him, his sins were forgiven: all which Guerin chearfully complied with, and accordingly crawled back to the defiled mountain.
Soon after the expiration of the seven years Count Vifroy, the father of the murdered Princess, was hunting on the mountain of Montserrat, and passing near Guerin's cave, the dogs entered, and the servant seeing a hideous figure concluded they had found the wild beast they were in pursuit of: they informed the Count of what they had seen, who gave directions to secure the beast alive, which was accordingly done; for he was so over-grown with hair, and so deformed in shape, that they had no idea of the creature being human. He was therefore kept in the Count's stable at Barcelona, and shewn to his visitors as a wonderful and singular wild beast. During this time, while a company were examining this extraordinary animal, a nurse with a young child in her arms looked upon it, and the child after fixing his eyes stedfastly for a few minutes on Guerin, said, "Guerin, rise, thy sins are forgiven thee!"—Guerin instantly rose, threw himself at the Count's feet, confessed the crimes he had been guilty of, and desired to receive the punishment due to them, from the hands of him whom he had so highly injured; but the Count, perceiving that God had forgiven him, forgave him also.
I will not trouble you with all the particulars which attended this miracle; it will be sufficient to say, that the Count and Guerin went to take up the body of the murdered Princess, for burial with her ancestors; but, to their great astonishment found her there alive, possessing the same youth and beauty she had been left with, and no alteration of any kind, but a purple streak about her neck where the cord had been twisted, and wherewith Guerin had strangled her. The father desired her to return to Barcelona; but she was enjoined by the Holy Virgin, she said, to spend her days on that miraculous spot; and accordingly a church and convent was built there, the latter inhabited by Nuns, of which the Princess (who had risen from the dead) was the Abbess. It was called the Abbey des Pucelles, of the order of St. Benoit, and was founded in the year 801. But such a vast concourse of people, of both sexes, resorted to it, from all parts of the world, that at length it was thought prudent to remove the women to a convent at Barcelona, and place a body of Benedictine monks in their place.
Strange as this story is, it is to be seen in the archives of this holy house; and in the street called Condal, at Barcelona, may be seen in the wall of the old palace of the Count's, an ancient figure, cut in stone, which represents the nurse with the child in her arms, and a strange figure, on his knees, at her feet, and that is Friar Guerin.
Now, whether you will believe all this story, or not, I cannot take upon me to say; but I will assure you, that when you visit this spot, it will be necessary to say you do; or you would appear in their eyes a much greater wonder than any thing which I have related, of the Devil, the Friar, the Virgin, and the Count.
The second hermitage, for I give them in the order they are usually visited, is that of St. Catharine, situated in a deep and solitary vale: it however commands a most extensive and pleasing prospect, at noon-day, to the East and West. The buildings, garden, &c. are confined within small limits, being fixed in a most picturesque and secure recess under the foot of one of the high pines. Though this hermit's habitation is the most retired and solitary abode of any, and far removed from the din of men, yet the courteous, affable, and sprightly inhabitant, seems not to feel the loss of human society, though no man, I think, can be a greater ornament to human nature. If he is not much accustomed to hear the voice of men, he is amply recompensed by the notes of birds; for it is their sanctuary as well as his; for no part of the mountain is so well inhabited by the feathered race of beings as this delightful spot. Perhaps indeed, they have sagacity enough to know that there is no other so perfectly secure. Here the nightingale, the blackbird, the linnet, and an infinite variety of little songsters greater strangers to my eyes, than fearful of my hands, dwell in perfect security, and live in the most friendly intimacy with their holy protector, and obedient to his call; for, says the hermit,
When instantly the whole vocal band quit their sprays, and surround the person of their daily benefactor, some settling upon his head, others entangle their feet in his beard, and in the true sense of the word, take his bread even out of his mouth; but it is freely given: their confidence is so great, (for the holy father is their bondsman) that the stranger too partakes of their familiarity and caresses. These hermits are not allowed to keep within their walls either dog, cat, bird, or any living thing, lest their attention should be withdrawn from heavenly to earthly affections. I am sorry to arraign this good man; he cannot be said to transgress the law, but he certainly evades it; for though his feathered band do not live within his walls, they are always attendant upon his court; nor can any prince or princess on earth boast of heads so elegantly plumed, as may be seen at the court of St. Catharine; or of vassals who pay their tributes with half the chearfulness they are given and received by the humble monarch of this sequestered vale. If his meals are scanty, his dessert is served up with a song, and he is hushed to sleep by the nightingale; and when we consider, that he has but few days in the whole year which are inferior to some of our best in the months of May and June, you may easily conceive, that a man who breathes such pure air, who feeds on such light food, whose blood circulates freely from moderate exercise, and whose mind is never ruffled by worldly affairs, whose short sleeps are sweet and refreshing, and who lives confident of finding in death a more heavenly residence; lives a life to be envied, not pitied.—Turn but your eyes one minute from this man's situation, to that of any monarch or minister on earth, and say, on which side does the balance turn?—While some princes may be embruing their hands in the blood of their subjects, this man is offering up his prayers to God to preserve all mankind:—While some ministers are sending forth fleets and armies to wreak their own private vengeance on a brave and uncorrupted people, this solitary man is feeding, from his own scanty allowance, the birds of the air.—Conceive him, in his last hour, upon his straw bed, and see with what composure and resignation he meets it!—Look in the face of a dying king, or a plundering, and blood-thirsty minister,—what terrors the sight of their velvet beds, adorned with crimson plumage, must bring to their affrighted imagination!—In that awful hour, it will remind them of the innocent blood they have spilt;—nay, they will perhaps think, they were dyed with the blood of men scalped and massacred, to support their vanity and ambition!—In short, dear Sir, while kings and ministers are torn to pieces by a thirst after power and riches, and disturbed by a thousand anxious cares, this poor hermit can have but one, i.e. lest he should be removed (as the prior of the convent has a power to do) to some other cell, for that is sometimes done, and very properly.
The youngest and most hardy constitutions are generally put into the higher hermitages, or those to which the access is most difficult; for the air is so fine, in the highest parts of the mountain, that they say it often renders the respiration painful. Nothing therefore can be more reasonable than, that as these good men grow older, and less able to bear the fatigues and inconveniencies the highest abodes unavoidably subject them to, should be removed to more convenient dwellings, and that the younger and stouter men should succeed them.
As the hermits never eat meat, I could not help observing to him, how fortunate a circumstance it was for the safety of his little feathered friends; and that there were no boys to disturb their young, nor any sportsman to kill the parent.—God forbid, said he, that one of them should fall, but by his hands who gave it life!—Give me your hand, said I, and bless me!—I believe it did; but it shortened my visit:—so I stept into the grot, and stole a pound of chocolate upon his stone table, and myself away.
If there is a happy man upon this earth, I have seen that extraordinary man, and here he dwells!—his features, his manners, all his looks and actions, announce it;—yet he had not even a single maravedi in his pocket:—money is as useless to him, as to one of his black-birds.
Within a gun-shot of this remnant of Eden, are the remains of an ancient hermitage, called St. Pedro. While I was there, my hermit followed me; but I too coveted retirement. I had just bought a fine fowling-piece at Barcelona; and when he came, I was availing myself of the hallowed spot, to make my vow never to use it. In truth, dear Sir, there are some sorts of pleasures too powerful for the body to bear, as well as some sort of pain: and here I was wrecked upon the wheel of felicity; and could only say, like the poor criminal who suffered at Dijon,—O God! O God! at every coup.
I was sorry my host did not understand English, nor I Spanish enough, to give him the sense of the lines written in poor Shenstone's alcove.
I forgot the other lines; but they conclude thus:
I know you will not like to leave St. Catherine's harmonious cell so soon;—nor should I, but that I intend to visit it again. I will therefore conduct you to St. Juan, about four hundred paces distant from it, on the east side of which, you look down a most horrid and frightful precipice,—a precipice, so very tremendous, that I am persuaded there are many people whose imagination would be so intoxicated by looking at it, that they might be in danger of throwing themselves over: I do not know whether you will understand my meaning by saying so; but I have more than once been so bewildered with such alarming coup d'oeil on this mountain, that I began to doubt whether my own powers were sufficient to protect me:—Horses, from sudden fright, will often run into the fire; and man too, may be forced upon his own destruction, to avoid those sensations of danger he has not been accustomed to look upon. Perhaps I am talking non-sense; and you will attribute what I say to lowness of spirits; on the contrary, I had those feelings about me only during the time my eyes were employed upon such frightful objects; for my spirits were enlivened by pure air, exercise, and temperance:—nay, I remember to have been struck in the same manner, when the grand explosion of the fireworks was played off, many years ago, upon the conclusion of peace! The blast was so great, that it appeared as if it were designed to take with it all earthly things; and I felt almost forced by it, and summoned from my seat, and could hardly refrain from jumping over a parapet wall which stood before me. The building of this hermitage, however, is very secure; nothing can shake or remove it, but that which must shake or remove the whole mountain. At this cell, small as it is, King Philip the Third dined on the eleventh of July 1599;—a circumstance, you may be sure, the inhabitant will never forget, or omit to mention. It commands at noon-day a fine prospect eastward, and is approached by a good stage of steps. Not far from it, on the road side, is a little chapel called St. Michael, a chapel as ancient as the monastery itself; and a little below is the grotto, in which the image of the Virgin, now fixed in the high altar of the church, was found. The entrance of this grotto is converted into a chapel, where mass is said every day by one of the monks. All the hermitages, even the smallest, have their little chapel, the ornaments for saying mass, their water cistern, and most of them a little garden. The building consists of one or two little chambers, a little refectory, and a kitchen; but many of them have every convenience within and without that a single man can wish or desire, except he should wish for or desire such things as he was obliged to renounce when he took possession of it.
From hence, by a road more wonderful than safe or pleasing, you are led on a ridge of mountains to the lofty cell of St. Onofre. It stands in a cleft in one of the pine heads, six and thirty feet (I was going to say) above the earth; its appearance is indeed astonishing, for it seems in a manner hanging in the air; the access to it is by a ladder of sixty steps, extremely difficult to ascend, and even then you have a wooden bridge to cross, fixed from rock to rock, under which is an aperture of so terrifying an appearance, that I still think a person, not over timid, may find it very difficult to pass over, if he looks under, without losing in some degree that firmness which is necessary to his own preservation. The best and safest way is, to look forward at the building or object you are going to.—Fighting, and even courage, is mechanical; a man may be taught it as readily as any other science; and I would pit the little timid hermit of St. Onofre to a march, on the margin of the precipices on this mountain, against the bravest general we have in America. The man that would not wince at the whistle of a cannon-ball over his head, may find his blood retire, and his senses bewildered, at a dreadful precipice under his feet. St. Onofre possesses no more space than what is covered in by the tiling, nor any prospect but to the South. The inhabitant of it says, he often sees the islands of Minorca, Mallorca, and Ivica, and the kingdoms of Valencia and Murcia. The weather was extremely fine when I visited it, but there was a distant haziness which prevented my seeing those islands; indeed, my eyes were better employed and entertained in examining objects more interesting, as well as more pleasing. Going from this hermitage, you have a view of the vale of St. Mary, formerly called la Vallee Amere, through which the river Lobregate runs, and which divides the bishoprick of Barcelona from that of De Vic.
Lest you should think I am rather too tremendously descriptive of this upland journey, hear what a French traveller says, who visited this mountain about twenty years ago. After examining every thing curious at the convent, he says, "Il ne me restoit plus rien a voir que l'hermitage qui est renomme, il est dans la partie la plus elevee de la montagne, & partage en treize habitations, pour autant d'hermites. Le plaisir de le voir devoit me dedommager de la peine qu'il me falloit prendre pour y monter, en grimpant pendant plus de heux heures. J'aurois pre me servir de ma mule, mais il m'auroit fallu prendre un chemin ou j'aurois mis le double du tems. Je m'armai donc de courage, & entre dans une enceinte par une porte que l'on m'ouvrit avec peine au dehors du monastere, je commencai a monter par des degres qui sembloient perpendiculaires, tant ils etoient roides; & je fus oblige de m'agraffer a des barres qui y font placees expres: ensuite, je me trainai par-dessous de grosses pierres, qui sont comme des voutes ruinees, dont les ouvertures sont le seul passage qu'il y ait pour quiconque a la temerite de s'engager dans ces defiles; apres avoir grimpe, environ mille pas, je trouvai un petit terrein uni ou je me laissai tomber tout etendu afin de reprendre ma respiration qui commencoit a me manquer." And yet this was only the Frenchman's first stage on his way to the first and nearest hermitage; and who I find clambered up the very road we did, rather than take the longer route on mule-back; and, for aught I know, a route still more dangerous, for there are many places where the precipice is perpendicular on both sides of a ridge, and where the road is too narrow even to turn the mule; so he that sets out, must proceed.
After ascending a ladder fixed in the same pine where St. Onofre is situated, at an hundred and fifty paces distant, is the fifth hermitage of the penitent Madalena; it stands between two lofty pines, and on some elevated rocks, and commands a beautiful view, towards noon-day, to the East and West; and near to it, in a more elevated pine, stands its chapel, from whence you look down (dreadful to behold) a rugged precipice and steep hills, upon the convent at two miles distance where are two roads, or rather passages, to this cell, both exceedingly difficult; by one you mount up a ladder of at least an hundred steps; the other is of stone steps, and pieces of timber to hold by; that the hermit who dwells there says, the whistling of the wind in tempestuous nights sounds like the roaring of baited bulls.
I must now lead you up to the highest part of the mountain; it is a long way up, not less than three thousand five hundred paces from St. Madalena, and over a very rugged and disagreeable road for the feet, which leads, however, to the cell of St. Geronimo; from the two turrets of which, an immense scene is opened, too much for the head of a low-lander to bear; for it not only takes in a view of a great part of the mountain beneath, but of the kingdoms of Arragon, Valencia, the Mediterranean Sea, and the islands; but as it were, one half of the earth's orbit. The fatigue to clamber up to it is very great; but the recompense is ample. This hermitage looks down upon a wood above a league in circumference, in which formerly some hermits dwelt; but at present it is stocked with cattle belonging to the convent, who have a fountain of good water therein. Near this hermitage, in a place they call Poza, the snow is preserved for the use of the Religieux. The inhabitant either was not within, or would not be disturbed; so that after feasting my eyes on all sides, my conductor led me on eastward to the seventh hermitage, called St. Antonio, the father of the Anchorites; it stands under one of the highest PINES, and the access to it is so difficult and dangerous, that very few strangers visit it;—a circumstance which whetted my curiosity; so, like the boy after a bird's-nest, I risqued it, especially as I was pretty sure I should take the old bird sitting. This hermit had formerly been in the service; and though he had made great intercession to the Holy Virgin and saints in heaven, as well as much interest with men on earth, he was not, I think, quite happy in his exalted station; his turret is so small, that it will not contain above two men; the view from it, to the East and North, is very fine; but it looks down a most horrible and dreadful precipice, above one hundred and eighty toises perpendicular, and upon the river Lobregate. No man, but he whom custom has made familiar to such a tremendous eye-ball, can behold this place but with horror and amazement; and I was as glad to leave it, as I was pleased to have seen it. At about a gun-shot distance from it rises the highest pine-head of the mountain, called Caval Hernot, which is eighty toises higher than any other cone, and three thousand three hundred paces from the convent below. Keeping under the side of the same hill, and along the base of the same pine-head, you are led to the hermitage of St. Salvador, eight hundred paces from St. Antonio, which hermitage has two chapels, one of which is hewn out of the heart of the PINE, and consequently has a natural as well as a beautiful cupola; the access to this cell is very difficult, for the crags project so much, that it is necessary to clamber over them on all-four; the prospects are very fine to the southward and eastward. The inhabitant was from home; but as there was no fastening to his doors, I examined all his worldly goods, and found that most of them were the work of his own ingenious hands. A little distant from hence stands a wooden cross, at which the road divides; one path leads to St. Benito, the other to the Holy Trinity. By the archives of the convent, it appears, that in the year 1272, Francis Bertrando died at the hermitage of St. Salvador, after having spent forty-five years in it, admired for his sanctity and holy life, and that he was succeeded therein by François Durando Mayol, who dwelt in it twenty-seven years.
Descending from hence about six or seven hundred paces, you arrive at the ninth hermitage, St. Benito; the situation is very pleasing, the access easy, and the prospects divine. It was founded by an Abbot, whose intentions were, that it should contain within a small distance, four other cells, in memory of the five wounds made in the body of Christ. This hermit has the privilege of making an annual entertainment on a certain day, on which day all the other hermits meet there, and receive the sacrament from the hands of the mountain vicar; and after divine service, dine together. They meet also at this hermitage on the day of each titular saint, to say mass, and commune with each other.
I cannot say a word to you on any other subject, till you have taken a turn with me in the shrubberies and gardens of the glorious (so they call it) hermitage of St. Ana. Coming from St. Benito, by a brook which runs down the middle of the mountain, six hundred paces distant from it, stands St. Ana, in a spacious situation, and much larger than any other, and is nearly in the center of them all. The chapel here is sufficiently large for the whole society to meet in, and accordingly they do so on certain festivals and holidays, where they confess to their mountain vicar, and receive the sacrament, This habitation is nobly adorned with large trees; the ever-green oak, the cork, the cypress, the spreading fig-tree, and a variety of others; yet it is nevertheless dreadfully exposed to the fury of some particular winds; and the buildings are sometimes greatly damaged, and the life of the inhabitant endangered, by the boughs which are torn off and blown about his dwelling. The foot-road from it to the monastery is only one thousand three hundred paces, but it is very rugged and unsafe; the mule-road is above four times as far: it was built in 1498, and is the hermitage where all the pilgrims pay their ordinary devotion.
Eight hundred and fifty paces distant, on the road which leads to the hermitage of St. Salvador, stands, in a solitary and deep wood, the hermitage of the Holy Trinity. Every part of the building is neat, and the simplicity of the whole prepares you to expect the same simplicity of manners from the man who dwells within it: and a venerable man he is; but he seemed more disposed to converse with his neighbours, Messrs. Nature, than with us. His trees, he knows, never flatter or affront him; and after welcoming us more by his humble looks than civil words, he retired to his long and shady walk; a walk, a full gun-shot in length, and nothing in nature certainly can be more beautiful; it forms a close arbour, though composed of large trees, and terminates in a view of a vast range of pines, which are so regularly placed side by side, and which, by the reflection of the sun on their yellow and well burnished sides, have the appearance of the pipes of an organ a mile in circumference. The Spaniards say that the mountain is a block of coarse jasper, and these organ pipes, it must be confessed, seem to confirm it; for they are so well polished by the hand of time, that were it not too great a work for man, one would be apt to believe they had been cut by an artist.
Five hundred and sixty paces from the hermitage of the Holy Trinity, stands St. Cruz; it is built under the foot of one of the smaller pines; this is the nearest cell of any to the convent, and consequently oftenest visited, being only six hundred and sixty steps from the bottom of the mountain.
I am now come to St. Dimas, the last, and most important, if not the most beautiful of all the hermits' habitations. This hermitage is surrounded on all sides by steep and dreadful precipices, some of which lead the eyes straight down, even to the river Lobregate; it can be entered only on the east side by a draw-bridge, which, when lifted up, renders any access to it almost impossible. This hermitage was formerly a strong castle, and possessed by a banditti, who frequently plundered and ravaged the country in the day-time, and secured themselves from punishment, by retiring to this fast hold by night. As it stands, or rather hangs over the buildings and convent below, they would frequently lower baskets by cords, and demand provisions, wine, or whatever necessaries or luxuries the convent afforded; and if their demands were not instantly complied with, they tumbled down rocks of an immense size, which frequently damaged the buildings, and killed the people beneath: indeed, it was always in their power to destroy the whole building, and suffer none to live there; but that would have been depriving themselves of one safe means of subsistence:—at length the monks, by the assistance of good glasses, and a constant attention to the motion of their troublesome boarders, having observed that the greater part were gone out upon the marauding party, persuaded seven or eight stout farmers to believe, that heaven would reward them if they could scale the horrid precipices, and by surprise seize the castle, and secure the few who remained in it;—and these brave men accordingly got into it unobserved, killed one of the men, and secured the others for a public example. The castle was then demolished, and a hermitage called St. Dimas, or the Good Thief, built upon the spot. The views from it are very extensive and noble to the south and eastward.
And now, Sir, having conducted you to make a short visit to each of these wonderful, though little abodes, I must assure you, that a man well versed in author craft might write thirteen little volumes upon subjects so very singular. But as no written account can give a perfect idea of the particular beauties of any mountain, and more especially of one so unlike all others, I shall quit nature, and conduct you to the works of art, and treasures of value, which are within the walls of the holy sanctuary below; only observing, what I omitted to mention, that the great rains which have fallen since the creation of all things, down the sides of this steep mount, have made round the whole base a prodigious wide and deep trench, which has the appearance of a vast river course drained of its water. In this deep trench lie an infinite number of huge blocks of the mountain, which have from age to age caved down from its side, and which renders the tout au tour of the mountain below full as extraordinary as the pointed pinnacles above: beside this, there are many little recesses on the sides of the hill below, so adorned by stately trees and natural fountains, that I know not which part of the enchanted spot is most beautiful. I found in one of these places a little garden, fenced in by the fallen rocks, a spring of so clear and cool a water, and the whole so shaded by, oaks, so warmed by the sun, and so superlatively romantic, that I was determined to find out the owner of it, and have set about building a house or a hut to the garden, and to have made it my abode; but, alas! upon enquiry, I found the well was a holy one, and that the water, the purest and finest I ever saw or tasted could only be used for holy purposes. And here let me observe, that the generality of strangers who visit this mountain, come prepared only to stay one day;—but it is not a day, nor a week, that is sufficient to see half the smaller beauties which a mountain, so great and wonderful of itself, affords on all sides, from the highest pinacle above, to the foundation stones beneath.
But I should have told you, that there are other roads to some of the hermitages above, which, by twisting and turning from side to side, are every week clambered up by a blind mule, who, being loaded with thirteen baskets containing the provision for the hermits, goes up without any conductor, and taking the hermitages in their proper order, goes as near as he can to each, and waits till the hermit has taken his portion; and proceeds till he has discharged his load, and his trust, and then returns to his stable below. I did not see this animal on the road, but I saw some of his offerings there, and you may rely upon the truth of what I tell you.
Before I quit the hermits, however, I must tell you, that the hardships and fatigues which some of them voluntarily inflict upon themselves, are almost incredible: they cannot, like the monks in Russia, sit in water to their chins till they are froze up, but they undergo some penances almost as severe.
Pere Pascal having invited me to high mass, and to hear a Spanish sermon preached by one of their best orators, we attended; and though I did not understand the language sufficiently to know all I heard, I understood enough to be entertained, if not edified. The decency of the whole congregation too, was truly characteristic of their profession. There sat just before us a number of lay-brothers, bare-headed, with their eyes fixed the whole time upon the ground; and tho' they knew we were strangers, and probably as singular in their eyes as they could be in ours, I never perceived one of them, either at or after the service was over, to look, or even glance an eye at us. The chapel, or church of this convent, is a very noble building; and high over the great altar is fixed the image of the Virgin, which was found eight hundred years ago in a deep cave on the side of the mountain: they say the figure is the work of St. Luke; if that be true, St. Luke was a better carver than a painter, for this figure is the work of no contemptible artist; it is of wood, and of a dark-brown it is of wood, and of a dark-brown or rather black colour, about the size of a girl of twelve years of age; her garments are very costly, and she had on a crown richly adorned with real jewels of great value; and I believe, except our Lady of Loretto, the paraphernalia of her person is superior to all the saints or crowned heads in Europe. She holds on her knees a little Jesus, of the same complexion, and the work of the same artist. The high altar is a most magnificent and costly structure, and there constantly burn before it upwards of fourscore large silver lamps. The balustrades before the altar were given by King Philip the Third, and cost seven thousand crowns; and it cost fourteen thousand more to cut away the rock to lay the foundation of this new church, the old one being so small, and often so crowded by pilgrims and strangers, that many of the monks lost their lives in it every year. The whole expence of building the new one, exclusive of the inward ornaments, is computed at a million of crowns; and the seats of the choir, six and thirty thousand livres. The old church has nothing very remarkable in it but some good ancient monuments, one of which is of Bernard Villomarin, Admiral of Naples; a man (as the inscription says) illustrious in peace and war. There is another of Don John d'Arragon, Dux Lunæ, who died in 1528; he was nephew to King Ferdinand. But the most singular inscription in this old church is one engraven on a pillar, under which St. Ignatius spent a whole night in prayer before he took the resolution of renouncing the world, which was in the year 1522.
After mass was over, we were shewn into a chamber behind the high altar, where a door opened to the recess, in which the Virgin is placed, and where we were permitted, or rather required to kiss her hand. At the same time, I perceived a great many pilgrims entering the apartments, whose penitential faces plainly discovered the reverence and devotion with which they approached her sacred presence. When we returned, we were presented to the Prior; a lively, genteel man, of good address; who, with Pere Tendre, the Frenchman, shewed us an infinite quantity of jewels, vessels of gold and silver, garments, &c. which have been presented by Kings, Queens, and Emperors, to the convent, for the purpose of arraying this miraculous image. I begin to suspect that you will think I am become half a Catholic;—indeed, I begin to think so myself; and if ever I publicly renounce that faith which I now hold, it shall be done in a pilgrimage to Montserrat; for I do not see why God, who delights so much in variety, as all his mighty works testify; who has not made two green leaves of the same tint,—may not, nay, ought not to be worshipped by men of different nations, in variety of forms. I see no absurdity in a set of men meeting as the Quakers do, and sitting in silent contemplation, reflecting on the errors of their past life, and resolving to amend in future. I think an honest, good Quaker, as respectable a being as an Archbishop; and a monk, or a hermit, who think they merit heaven by the sacrifice they make for it, will certainly obtain it: and as I am persuaded the men of this society think so, I highly honour and respect them: I am sure I feel myself much obliged to them. They have a good library, but it is in great disorder; nor do I believe they are men of much reading; indeed, they are so employed in confessing the pilgrims and poor, that they cannot have much time for study.
I forgot to tell you, that at Narbonne I had been accosted by a young genteel couple, a male and female, who were upon a pilgrimage; they were dressed rather neat than fine, and their garments were adorned with cockle and other marine shells; such, indeed, all the poorer sort of pilgrims are characterised with. They presented a tin box to me, with much address, but said nothing, nor did I give them any thing; indeed, I did not then know, very well, for what purpose or use the charity they claimed was to be applied. This young couple were among the strangers who were now approaching the sacred image. I was very desirous of knowing their story, who they were, and what sins people so young, and who looked so good, had been guilty of, to think it necessary to come so far for absolution. Their sins on the road, I could be at no loss to guess at; and as they were such as people who love one another are very apt to commit, I hope and believe, they will obtain forgiveness of them.—They were either people of some condition, or very accomplished Chevaliers d'Industrie; though I am most inclined to believe, they were brother and sister, of some condition.
After visiting the Holy Virgin, I paid my respects to the several monks in their own apartments, under the conduct of Pere Pascal, and was greatly entertained.—I found them excellently lodged; their apartments had no finery, but every useful convenience; and several good harpsichords, as well as good performers, beside an excellent organist. The Prior, in particular, has so much address, of the polite world about him, that he must have lived in it before he made a vow to retire from it.
I never saw a more striking instance of national influence than in the person of Pere Tendre, the Frenchman!—In spite of his holy life, and living among Spaniards of the utmost gravity of manners, I could have known him at first sight to have been a Frenchman. I never saw, even upon the Boulevards at Paris, a more lively, animated, or chearful face.
Indeed, one must believe, that these men are as good as they appear to be; for they have reason enough to believe, that every hour may be their last, as there hangs over their whole building such a terrifying mass of rock and pine heads, so split and divided, that it is difficult to perceive by what powers they are sustained: many have given way, and have no other support than the base they have made by slipping in part down, among the smaller rocks and broken fragments. About an hundred years ago, one vast block fell from above, and buried under it the hospital, and all the sick and their attendants; and where it still remains, a dreadful monument, and memento, to all who dwell near it!—I should fear (God avert the day!) that the smallest degree of an earthquake would bury all the convent, monks, and treasure, by one fatal coup.