The sea coast echo. [volume] (Bay Saint Louis, Miss.) 1892-current, 1911-04-22
For The Sea Coast Echo.
A VISITTO THE SHRINE
OF ST. ROCH.

the flow of my heredity; it may be
cropping out of the spiritual atavism,
that an irresistible Good Friday incli-
nation impelled me to journey out
through the long, glimmering green
vista of Claiborne street, way down to
Washington avenue, searching out
Campo Santo and its chapel shrine of
ST. Roch - that mediaeval philanthro-
pist who carried help and healing to
pIague-stricken Munich, and thus found
his way through canonization to per-
petuity on pedestal, and to incessant
importantly by the faithful. In my
Unitarian attainment of creed l don't
forget even the remotest spiritual aid.
and, while education has 30 tediously
tried to distil harmony from the gamut
of protestantisms, l have well learned
that
''He who sneers at any living hope
Or aspiration OF human heart
Is just so many stages less than God;"
so, it is with infinite indulgence that |
listen to the many earnest recitals of
miracles continuously performed by
"novenas'', made at the hallowed spot
situated on the far, quiet verge of the
busy city. Pilgrimages, they tell me,
are properly made on foot with much
| necessary WEAKNESS and soreness,
sometimes requiring beans in the shoes
only not boiled ones; introspection
declared my bodily and spiritual wounds
already sufficiently numerous to demand
the visit as an JUNCTION rather than
| penance, so with ready consent Of a
pleasant companion the street car left
us within a half-dozen squares of the
goal.
| A flow of votaries guided us Alright,
and the little graveyard of about one
acre in area was alive with throng
that moved in and out while in the
low, waste ground outside the enclo-
sure troops of children gathered the
yellow-headed weeds and the brilliant
fleurs- -de-lis: Soddy graves and the
ordinary tomb structures of the brick
even style filled the humble burial
place; the most pretentious sepulchers
are owned by German society and
form the walls of the chapel, which
stands midway of the plot. opposite
the gate and almost against the rude,
wooden fence. The small Gothic struc-
ture, weather-stained and vine-grown,
with open front and sidewalks from
| floor to ceiling lined with vaults, has
marble pavement, and its two small
stained-glass windows look down over
! the altar where stands the marble figure
of the saint with a staff in his hand
and dog at his side; it seems no part
of irreverence that I chose to think
the faithful animal, TOO, was included
in the efficacy of the canon law.
| Candles were burning around the
shrine and their number being increased
by arriving devotees, while the dozen
benches were filled by the praying, and
the little aisles, were closely packed
| by the kneeling-men and women, old
aud young, white and black. The at
mosphere was saturated with the So
lemnity of devotion; faith had here
repaired, remote from all frivolous envi-
ronment, to ask help of the patron saint
for each hearts particular desire and
dearest wish, while on the wall hung
this larger appeal.
go, great st. Roch, deliver US, we
beseech thee, from the scourges of God.
Through thy intercessions preserve our
bodies from contagious diseases and our
soul from the contagion of sin. Obtain
for US salubrious air; but, above all,
purity of heart. Assist US to make good
use of health, to bear suffering with
patience, and, after thy example, to
live in the practice of penitence and
charity, that we may one day enjoy the
happiness which thou hast merited by
thy virtues. ST. Roch. pray for US,
pray for US, pray for us!"
While the votive fapers hickere and
.e inc. rs u WIN airs 4 10
sole out aad aud q t!d Iatat cipv 4
grown spot, under the shade of Il weep
ing willow, where it was inviting to rest.
With the sunshine shimmering th rough
the trailing, plumy foliage, the birds
singing and flowers blooming, the rank |
flavor of death was all round; dreams |
and phantoms chased themselves in the |
deep world of contemplation, and as
the weird pages of Olive ocnreiner's !,
ssStory of an African Farm" held fre-h |,
thrall on my memory, the words sue
puts IN Waldo's last mutterings flash |
out: "No death, no death, there is that
which never dies-which abides. 1t is
but the individual that perishes, the
world remains. 1t is the organism that
vanishes; the atoms are there. It is
but the man that dies; the Universal
Whole, of which he is part, reworks
him into its inmost self. All, what
matter that mans day be short! that
the sunrise sees him and the sunset sees
his grave; that of which he is but the
breath has breathed him forth and
drawn him back again. That abides-
we abide."
The sweet woman had with me was
of the kind on whose face Time prints