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 SACRED HEART IN THE MOUNTAINS 
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" Bishop Haid entered into all the Plans." 
 
 THE SACRED HEART IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 By Dorothy Gresham. 
 
 I. 
 
 E speak of the promises of the Sacred Heart, we 
 pray with apparent faith, and yet we are so 
 astonished when we are heard. 
 
 Last May, by the merest accident, I found 
 myself in one of the wildest and most beauti- 
 ful mountain villages of the Blue Ridge. I came for a day, 
 
1 894.] The Sacred Heart in the Mountains. 629 
 
 and left — well, you shall hear. Week followed week, and still 
 I lingered ; the mountain world, the negroes, the Southern life 
 and scenes were delightfully new, and I learned to love them. 
 
 Sunday was the only black cloud on this sunny horizon ; 
 no Mass, no priest, no Catholics as far as I could find out. 
 Writing to an invalid friend of mine, then staying in Asheville, 
 I mourned over the sad state of affairs ; all it wanted here was 
 a statue of Our Lady or some wayside shrine to give my sur- 
 roundings all the historic, holy atmosphere of the Tyrol. My 
 letter was like a trumpet to a war-horse, as I suspected ; but 
 I thought that prayers would and could be all the assistance 
 my appeal would receive. Miserable in health, far from home, 
 and utterly unknown, what else could one expect ? 
 
 But, with years' experience of all that a truly apostolic heart 
 can accomplish when God's work is to be done, the following 
 note, a week later, fairly took my breath away : " Get a cottage 
 on the hills for me suitable for Mass. The bishop has pro- 
 mised to send a priest for the feast of the Sacred Heart. I 
 shall be with you on Tuesday ; there is' one Catholic family — 
 let them know !" No time for delay after that. I succeeded 
 luckily about the house — it was all that could be desired — gath- 
 ered the barest necessities to make the same habitable, hunted 
 up the " only Catholic family," and found them full of Irish 
 faith, so amazed at my news that they could scarcely believe 
 me. They told me there were some more through the moun- 
 tains, lukewarm and indifferent, and others whom they only 
 suspected were Catholics. Not encouraging to greet my friend, 
 but we must only hope. 
 
 She came, feeble in body and strong in mind, now slowly 
 recovering from a long illness, sent down to Asheville as a last 
 resource to save her life, and this is how she goes about it. 
 The good bishop, who is also the mitred abbot of the Benedic- 
 tine monastery, has fully entered into all her hopes and plans, 
 promising her Mass through the summer months. To do this 
 he must needs send one of his hard-worked monks, who, with 
 the dust of the schools thick around him, comes forth to preach, 
 teach, and toil among those hardy mountaineers, winding up 
 his journeys each Sunday at fashionable Asheville. This the 
 vacation of a North Carolina missionary — this the rest he takes 
 for the summer ! 
 
 Those brave Benedictine fathers came here six short years 
 ago, poor in money, friends, and pupils, to find only a frame 
 hut and log chapel, innocent of paint. The altar decorations 
 
630 The Sacred Heart in the Mountains. [Feb., 
 
 were pictures, cut from papers and magazines. The first act of 
 the abbot and his young monks was to arm themselves with 
 paint buckets and brushes and begin ornamentation. Their trials 
 and vicissitudes would fill volumes. How they began with thir- 
 teen pupils ; to-day they have over a hundred ! How the lord 
 abbot himself milked the cows, Until he had instructed a negro 
 boy to take his place. A magnificent college to-day replaces 
 the old log building, and the foundation was laid one year ago 
 
 "I TROT AROUND THE PIAZZA AND PREPARE FOR A CLIMB UP THE HlLLS." 
 
 for the finest, church in the South, to take the place of the lit- 
 tle frame cathedral of North Carolina. 
 
 Over the mountain-tops the sun is climbing, with Southern 
 brilliancy ; down through the trees he pours, and gleams in 
 golden streaks through my shuttered windows. I rub my sleepy 
 eyes, and see by the clock it is half-past five — high time that I 
 should be up and doing. My first emotion is one of joy, even 
 before I remember what it comes from : as is often the case, 
 the last thought at night is usually the first in the morning — 
 then it slowly dawns on my drowsy senses. 
 
 I jump from my cot, now all animation ; my encounter with 
 the soap-bubbles is short and decisive, and dressing the work 
 of moments. I throw wide the outside shutters — the windows 
 are never closed night or day — and step out on the piazza. 
 How beautiful it is — sweet, fresh, and enchanting ! Who would 
 lie abed with such a feast awaiting them ? Through the trees 
 
i8o4-] The Sacred Heart in the Mountains. 631 
 
 the mountains do their best to peep at me, and I return the 
 compliment by admiring glances; which seems to please them, 
 for the more I smile the bluer, lovelier, loftier they look down 
 at me. I trot around the piazza, down the deep steps, and pre- 
 pare for a climb up the hills. Not a sound save the cow-bells 
 in the woods, which keep up a steady jingle ; not a human be- 
 ing in sight ; up amid these solitudes men are few and far 
 between ; the village street lies beyond the woods still slumber- 
 ing. Nature has a bright, joyous awakening air ; birds,- flowers, 
 and forests seem to cry out in one glad voice " Vivat Cor Jesu /" 
 It is the feast of the Sacred Heart, and I am on my way to 
 the temporary chapel for this first Mass of promise. 
 
 The sun is rising higher, and I' tramp along up . the winding 
 road through the woods ; the trees are so dense that I lose my 
 beloved mountains, but now and then catch a passing glimpse 
 of cosy farm-houses peeping through the pines. It is so pure, 
 so unworldly, so heavenly' up here, all alone with God and the 
 mountains ; and I think- of this great gift awaiting me at the 
 end of the road. Who would believe that our Lord would 
 crown all his blessings to us by this much-longed, much-prayed- 
 for favor. " Vivat Cor Jesu /"I echo with rejoicing nature this 
 morning. 
 
 A turn in the road brings me in view of the Swiss chalet 
 on the hills, its red roof shining through the trees, its pictur- 
 esque gables and angles racy of the Alps. Through the open 
 gate, by the rugged, steep avenue, I reach the steps ; the win- 
 dows opening to the ground are flung back ; through the first 
 I enter and find myself in the chapel. How shall I tell you of 
 it? One side is all windows, the other the altar; one's first 
 impression is great branches of oaks banked against the walls, 
 flinging out in soft colors the blazing roses and flickering lights 
 on the altar.- A picture of the Sacred Heart crowns the 
 whole. 
 
 I kneel among the small congregation, who are evidently as 
 impressed as myself. At that moment the father arrives, and 
 what a greeting he receives ! An old Irish patriarch meets him 
 at the steps with a genuine " Cead mille failthe"; a great Saxon 
 giant, the village blacksmith, seizes his hand and kisses it with 
 deep veneration, while his reverence comes in the door-way 
 bright and joyous as a school-boy home for the holidays. 
 What a beautiful spirit those Benedictines seem to have, al- 
 ways working, always smiling ! The confessions begin ; in and 
 out through the open windows the penitents come and go from 
 
632 
 
 The Sacred Heart in the Mountains. 
 
 [Feb., 
 
 the chapel to the confessional — the father's room next door. 
 How memorable that Mass ! Priest and people are lost in 
 prayer at that one great Sacrifice. Down the long, wide corri- 
 dor, through the open door, rising and falling comes " There's 
 no Heart like thine, sweet Lord "; and the mountains take up 
 
 the strain and echo back 
 their great exulting " Vivat 
 Cor Jesu /" 
 
 Every one goes to Holy 
 Communion. For many it 
 is their Easter duty, for 
 some it is their first in five 
 years, for others even more ; 
 the Sacred Heart has gath- 
 ered them all in. 
 
 The father says a few 
 words on the feast, and 
 begs the little flock to thank 
 the Sacred Heart for the 
 great blessings of to-day, 
 and to ask him to give 
 them, though deprived of 
 the comforts of religion, a 
 living, loving, burning Cath- 
 olic faith. By the door sits 
 Aunt Mattie, in her Sunday 
 cap and gown, drinking it 
 all in, her black eyes roll- 
 ing with the deepest inter- 
 est. She is wife of the colored Baptist preacher, and asked if 
 she too might not assist at the Mass. She is radiant, and de- 
 clares she will never miss that fine " service " no more " if de 
 white folks don't hab no 'jections." The father, she goes on to 
 say, " is jest booful, he acts so nice, speaks so pretty, and looks 
 so lovely." As the congregation troop down the steps one en- 
 thusiastic lady exclaims, " Oh ! was it not like the first Christians?" 
 but is brought down from the clouds by the cool rejoinder 
 of a mountaineer, " No, ma'am ; it was more like the late sin- 
 ners /" However, fervor marks them as they move away, and 
 time will prove the efficacy and power of this first Mass of the 
 Sacred Heart. Before leaving the father had asked them to 
 send their children each Sunday for instruction to their new 
 friend, and he would say Mass here every Thursday through the 
 
 "By the Door sits Aunt Mattie, in 
 Sunday Cap and Gown." 
 
1 8 9 4-] 
 
 The Sacred Heart in the Mountains. 
 
 633 
 
 summer. The news seemed too wonderful, and at first they 
 could not realize it. 
 
 The work begins ; two small boys and a girl put in an 
 appearance, then the older ones, finally the whole congregation, 
 numbering eighteen souls, assemble. The catechism lesson 
 develops into the beads, then some hymns are introduced, the 
 Epistle and Gospel are read, and then eleven o'clock is decided 
 on, to be in spirit with the Mass then being said in Asheville, 
 and the Sunday devotions and reunions become a precious in- 
 stitution. Under the broiling Southern sun they come down the 
 mountains, many walking miles with the greatest enthusiasm ; 
 generosity seems to be the spirit of this little flock. 
 
 II. 
 
 The bishop, hearing of the fidelity of his new-found moun- 
 tain flock, sent word that he himself would come and confirm 
 them in the faith ; and then they did think that heaven had 
 come down to them! He arrived for the feast of the Assump- 
 
 Across the Mountains to see the Bishop. 
 
 tion, and it was a great day truly ; nothing was spared to make 
 it a memorable one. To all the bishop was a stranger — this 
 was his first visit. 
 
 The little chalet on the hill seemed suitable for every emer- 
 
634 The Sacred Heart in the Mountains. [Feb., 
 
 gency ; the parlor had long been abandoned as too small, and 
 here was the novel and perfect chapel. The hall ran the whole 
 length of the house, wide, lofty, and handsome, over seventy 
 feet long and ten broad. At the main entrance there was a 
 deep recess, the large oak door being flanked by long French 
 windows. This was turned into the sanctuary. The altar 
 stood against the door, and draperies caught up by the papal 
 colors made a soft and effective background ; two large pine- 
 trees, the bishop's seal, stood graceful sentinels on either side 
 of the altar, which shone in the gorgeous coloring of the 
 sunny South. Flowers, wreaths, and plants were brought in 
 triumph by the children, the court-house benches did duty as 
 pews, and the whole was unique. 
 
 The bishop's first request on his arrival was to see the 
 "chapel," and he pronounced it "perfect." 
 
 From early morning the people gathered across the moun- 
 tains, and the place began filling up fast. The First Communi- 
 cants in white knelt reverently near the altar. The Mass be- 
 gan. Not a sound ; awe and wonder seemed to take possession 
 of them all, over a hundred people seemed as one; many from 
 the lower States up for the summer, and some Protestants who 
 had come to see what a Catholic bishop was really like ; the 
 colored preacher knelt, the most interested spectator of all. 
 Five received their First Communion from the hands of the 
 bishop, their ages ranging from ten to twenty-four years. 
 
 His lordship's instruction sank deep into the hearts of his 
 hearers. He said the ceremony of to-day must remind them 
 strongly of the First Confirmation ; it was in a house the Holy 
 Ghost had come on the apostles, as he had on those children 
 just now. There were no churches in those days, as there were 
 none here in those beautiful mountains ; but as the apostles 
 were then in their spiritual infancy, so to-day we do not know 
 what great things God has in store for us here in the moun- 
 tains and the faithful people gathered round his altar this 
 morning. 
 
 When all was over the congregation went slowly and quietly 
 homeward, winding down the long drive through the trees. The 
 Methodist preacher stood looking longingly at the large crucifix 
 above the altar, and then turning away, he said solemnly, " If 
 dere be any true church, that's she," pointing back at the pa- 
 thetic white figure on the cross ! Aunt Mattie was there, and 
 her spouse, the Baptist pastor. Before Mass she came to me, 
 radiant, with some colored friends of hers, to know if she might 
 
1894.] 
 
 The Sacred Heart in the Mountains. 
 
 635 
 
 not bring them to see " de bishiip." Her pride as she led them 
 forward was indeed great, her back expressive of the deepest 
 satisfaction. Once I caught her glance during Mass, and it was 
 a beaming one, as much as to say all was going on just as she 
 desired and thought proper. . . . 
 
 Golden autumn has settled down the mountains ; the Bene- 
 dictine father has gone back to the abbey, and the old priest 
 from Asheville has promised to come as long as the weather will 
 
 A Mountain Spring by the Way-side. 
 
 permit through the winter, and well does he keep his word. For 
 twenty-three years he has been through the Blue Ridge minis- 
 tering to the few Catholics, and is worn out after his labors. 
 Five churches and seven presbyteries in this State are the work 
 of his hands, or rather his head, for he has preached in almost 
 every large city in the North begging for assistance to build 
 them. It is a beautiful picture to see the venerable white-haired 
 father surrounded by his people before they leave for their 
 homes after Mass. Bohemians and Irish are one in heart and 
 mind, and seem like a little family, listening to his pleasant 
 
6 3 6 
 
 The Sacred Heart in the Mountains. 
 
 [Feb., 
 
 greetings, and his Celtic wit and story, the young people 
 especially hanging on every word. 
 
 It is Christmas morning, bright and radiant, with a lingering 
 crispness in the air after the slight frost of the night. The 
 village church-bells are calling all to worship the new-born King, 
 and the mountaineers come down the hills in merry groups. 
 Up the avenue the little flock are hastening to their first Christ- 
 mas festival. 
 
 In the chapel they gather joyously, and stand amazed at 
 the decorations. Laurels and rhododendrons are massed behind 
 
 the altar ; up above a large 
 scroll hems them in, with 
 Gloria in Excelsis blazing 
 from its crimson ground- 
 work. The altar itself 
 sparkles with lights and 
 colors, " while the pines 
 shelter all in their soft 
 feathery embrace. 
 
 For the first time the 
 Adeste is heard in these 
 solitudes. To the younger 
 ones who have never been 
 inside a Catholic Church it 
 is new ; to the parents its 
 well-remembered tones were 
 listened to long years ago 
 among the wild and rugged 
 mountains of Bohemia, and 
 in the humble chapel under 
 the shadow of the crumb- 
 ling cloisters of the Island 
 of Saints. Tears come un- 
 consciously and unbidden, but they are harbingers of joy and 
 hope to-day, as well as gratitude for all the happiness God at 
 last has sent them. After the devotions they cluster around her 
 whom they love and reverence as heaven-sent. Every one has 
 brought her some little gift, the small boys revelling in their 
 selections, while she, little dreaming of their intentions, has 
 surprises for them all. 
 
 The parents receive a large mounted picture of the Sacred 
 
 Aunt Margaret and Columbus. 
 
I894-] 
 
 The Sacred Heart in the Mountains. 
 
 637 
 
 Heart, especially blessed for their homes to remind them of 
 their fidelity, and the young people something they particu- 
 larly sighed for. Loving words develop into gay ones, and 
 broken German, snatches of the almost forgotten brogue, and the 
 mountain dialect all strangely jumble together in joyful ex- 
 citement. It was indeed the day the Lord had made, and one 
 that will never be forgotten. 
 
 This is the last of the sunny weather, and for weeks follow- 
 ing the north wind comes shrieking round the mountains, with 
 ice in its breath and snow-flakes on its wings. Six times they 
 all assemble for Mass, only to be disappointed ; the old priest 
 
 In a Southern Tobacco-field. 
 
 left home, but the elements drove him back. Not a murmur 
 from them ; all their sympathies seemed to be for the good old 
 man, up at five tottering through the icy streets to reach the 
 train, and never succeeding. Some of the mornings were 
 almost unbearable ; the wind swept up those peaks as if off the 
 North Pole. One family driving in the early morning, nearly 
 frozen, came across the village doctor, almost hidden in furs, on 
 his way to a dying man higher up the mountain. In sheer 
 amazement he asked them where they were going at this hour. 
 "To Mass; our priest has to come twenty miles for us, and we 
 ought to go a few miles to meet him." "Well," he said, 
 
638 The Sacred Heart in the Mountains. [Feb., 
 
 whipping up his horse, "let me tell you no one but a Catholic 
 would come out on such a day as this for church; I shouldn't, I 
 know ! " It was only after six of such morning trips, fasting 
 each time, hoping for Holy Communion, they were at last re- 
 warded. How they listened to the old father's apologies, and 
 account of his disappointments owing to runaway electric cars, 
 roads blocked with snow, besides numerous falls on the shining, 
 slippery streets. 
 
 Happy Easter has come and gone, and to-morrow will be a 
 sad day in the mountains ; the little flock are in desolation at 
 the parting that lies before them. 
 
 She who had come so strangely amongst them is called 
 North by other claims and duties. 
 
 At the little wayside station they stand close to her ; the 
 children first, who have been up since daybreak to be in time 
 to see her to the last. The men show their grief unblushingly. 
 It is hard work to keep back the tears, but when they do ap- 
 pear they are not the least ashamed of them. 
 
 The mothers have determined to reserve all sadness for an- 
 other day, as her last sight of them must be joyous. 
 
 " We shall never have Mass again," they wail, " if you leave 
 us." But she promises them better things — and she means it. 
 One Englishwoman, full of caustic humor, says with a mournful 
 face : " I always said when God made this place he forgot it 
 ever belonged to him, until you came to remind him of its ex- 
 istence ; and now, if we are left again, God will never think of 
 us any more." " Never ? " she smiles ; " if only you are faithful 
 he will be always with you. If you promise to go to Holy 
 Communion every chance you get, I promise, in return, that 
 you will have monthly Mass : the Sacred Heart does not begin 
 a work and then forget it." And they promise. 
 
 The train comes tearing in, the bell rings, broken voices, 
 warm farewells — and she passes out of their lives as quietly as 
 she came into them. 
 
 And now for the fidelity. Has the tiny seed sprouted for a 
 time and then withered away ? 
 
 A year has passed since that first Mass of the Sacred Heart, 
 and early last June we find them gathered once more for Mass, 
 in a lonely farm-house buried in the mountains. The old priest 
 has kept his word, and once a month, and oftener when he can, 
 he comes amongst them. From far and near they have walked 
 this morning ; some Protestant neighbors being interested listen- 
 ers to the good priest's simple instruction on the ceremonies of 
 
 
1 894.] The Sacred Heart in the Mountains. 639 
 
 the church. The master of the house, one year ago a luke- 
 warm Catholic, is to-day the proudest man in North Carolina; 
 his wife the happiest ; and his five children, who did not know 
 how to make the sign of the cross, are now monthly commu- 
 nicants. The servants of the wealthy Southern families up for 
 the summer are strong in numbers, glad and grateful. One 
 faithful Irishwoman lifts up her voice with exultation, saying : 
 " I've been coming up here for thirty years, and this year is the 
 first time we ever heard a Mass. Now, praises be to God, we'll 
 see a priest at last." 
 
 There is always general Communion when the father comes. 
 The little flock have not forgotten their promise, and the visit- 
 ors, seeing, go and do likewise. When Mass is over they tell 
 the father how they have succeeded since his last visit, how they 
 never miss meeting on Sundays for the beads and catechism 
 at one house or another, and he stirs them on to fresh efforts. 
 
 Not many weeks since did I tear myself away from this little 
 mountain mission, its poetry and faith, its never-to-be-forgotten 
 scenes. Back into the humdrum, bustling life of the North, 
 where, absorbed in the world and its ways, I can only steal 
 passing moments to live once more amid all those happy days 
 and charming, simple souls, whom I have learned to know and 
 love through that first Mass of the Sacred Heart in the moun- 
 tains. 
 
640 
 
 St. Columban and the Wolves. 
 
 [Feb., 
 
 ST. COLUMBAN AND THE WOLVES* 
 
 By P. J. Higgins, M.D. 
 
 UT thro' the castle gates of Annagray, 
 
 His frugal repast — herbs and wild fruits — 
 o'er, 
 The Abbot Columban, at close of day, 
 
 Came with bare head and sandaled feet to 
 pore 
 O'er parchment leaves from Scotia's f holy isle, 
 
 Writ in quaint script % by Bangor's lonely shore. 
 Wan were his features, yet a tender smile 
 
 Lit their stern lines when met his upward glance 
 The Roman walls, where pagan sword and lance 
 So long had glinted in the day-god's rays, 
 
 But now gave place to cross and clanging bell, 
 While vesper hymns supplanted Bacchus' praise, 
 And matin chime the sentry's "All is well!" 
 
 Into the forest turned the sandaled feet, 
 
 Where, in the stillness of the eventide, 
 His soul might linger in communior sv el" 
 
 With thoughts endearing of the C -' if \e \. 
 
 Upon a mossy log, beneath a tree,, 
 
 He sat in shadow • spread upon his ( e 
 The dingy parchment, and in silence :■ . i. 
 
 *St. Columban [pronounced Cullumaivn ; Latin fo: ■ Columbanus] was born in Ire- 
 land, in a.d. 539. In his youth he was educated by Senile . afterwards in an abbey on one 
 of the islands in Lough Erne — probably Devenish — and finally under Saint Congall in the 
 famous Bangor, one of the three great Irish monasteries of that epoch. At the age of fifty 
 he started en his mission to the Franks, accompanied by tweive assistants. He established 
 the first Irish monastery in Europe at Annagray. It was a Roman castle situated in the 
 Vosges Mountains, which was given to him by the Merovingian king. He afterwards found- 
 ed Luxeuil, Fontaines, and Bobbio — the latter in Italy — and one of his disciples that of St. 
 Gall, in Switzerland — all famous institutions of learning for centuries. In the face of the 
 greatest trials and difficulties his mission was crowned with wonderful success. The inci- 
 dent with the wolves is narrated in his biography by the Abbot Jonas of Bobbio, where St. 
 Columban died, November 21, 615. His coffin, chalice, holly staff, and Irish missal are still 
 in existence. 
 
 •f Scotia. The name by which Ireland was known at that time and for long afterwards. 
 
 % Quaint script. The letters used by the Irish monks were not the same as those on the- 
 Continent, where the Roman style prevailed. 
 
00034004345 
 
 FOR USE ONLY IN 
 THE NORTH CAROLINA COLLECTION 
 
 Form No. A-368, Rev. 8/95