Hotel de l'Europe, June 6th.--We are still here. . . . . I have been
daily to the Rocher des Dons, and have grown familiar with the old church
on its declivity. I think I might become attached to it by seeing it
often. A sombre old interior, with its heavy arches, and its roof
vaulted like the top of a trunk; its stone gallery, with ponderous
adornments, running round three sides. I observe that it is a daily
custom of the old women to say their prayers in concert, sometimes making
a pilgrimage, as it were, from chapel to chapel. The voice of one of
them is heard running through the series of petitions, and at intervals
the voices of the others join and swell into a chorus, so that it is like
a river connecting a series of lakes; or, not to use so gigantic a
simile, the one voice is like a thread, on which the beads of a rosary
are strung.
One day two priests came and sat down beside these prayerful women, and
joined in their petitions. I am inclined to hope that there is something
genuine in the devotion of these old women.
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