path among the pleasant trees and shrubs, on the right, we soon reached the level of the Gothic church, which we entered from the farther end.  Ascending the steps, the two statues on either side of the porch came in view, but neither repaid a nearer inspection; St. Bernard, on the left, looking about as dejected and consumptive as anyone, priest or layman, well could.  The church itself, from a Roman Catholic standpoint, must be considered very fine, but the adoration of the Virgin to the almost complete disregard of her subjection to “Our Saviour” is most apparent.  The windows and many of the altars are beautiful, and so are many of the banners, while the high altar is a great work of art; but the unreligious tone that this striving after effect produces, but without which the religion—­or so-called religion—­would soon cease to exist, struck us as we entered, and increased with every step.  It was as if to say, “Look at these lovely things, feast your eyes on them, and let their beauty be the mainspring to inspire you with faith.”  There was no appeal to the true religion of the soul, that springs from the heart in a clear stream, and which no tinsel banners, no elaborate statues, and no flaming candles, can quicken or intensify!

Leaving the church by the high road, with the Convent and “Place,” —­with its neat walks and grass plots,—­on the left, we proceeded to the “Panorama,” where, our admiration having been tempered by the payment of a franc each, we spent an enjoyable quarter of an hour.  The painting as a whole—­representing Lourdes twenty-five years ago—­is most effective, and the effect is heightened by the admirable combination with real earth, and grass, and trees.  The grouping of the figures round the grotto, representing the scene at the eighteenth appearance of the Virgin to Bernadette—­who is the foremost figure kneeling in the grotto—­is particularly fine; but how that huge crowd standing there were content with Bernadette’s assertion that she saw the vision, when none of them saw anything but the stones, is a practical question that few probably could answer, and least of all the priests. [Illustration] Returning by the way we had come, we bore up the Rue du Fort to inspect the old castle—­or all that remained of it—­and enjoy the view.  After some two hundred yards of this narrow street, painfully suggestive, in the vileness of its odours, of Canton’s narrower thoroughfares, we reached the steps leading up on the left, and commenced the ascent.  As it was, we did not find it very difficult work, though if a rifle had been levelled from every slit in the two-foot walls, it is probable that before two of the nearly two hundred steps had been surmounted, we would have been levelled also.  Passing between once impregnable walls (where English soldiers also passed in days of yore), we crossed the now harmless-looking drawbridge and rang the bell.  A woman opened the door and requested us to enter, a request which evidently met with the approbation