The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 13, No. 80, June, 1864 | Page 6

field, my eye fell on one of those
way-side shrines common in all Roman-Catholic districts. It was a
miniature arch of plastered or whitewashed stone, and contained, as
nearly as I could judge from the glimpse I had in passing, two coarse
dolls, intended to represent the Virgin and Child.
"What is that, Auguste?" I asked, with feigned ignorance.
"A place of worship," he answered; "the people come there to pray."
"But what do they come there for?" I continued.
"God is there," he answered, with emphasis, pointing at the same time
to the gayly dressed puppets.
"No, He is not," I replied.
He turned round and looked at me defiantly. His mild face became that
of a fanatic, and I actually quailed beneath his angry eye, as he
retorted,--
"He is there."
My mistake flashed upon me, too, at the instant, and I hastened to
explain myself in the simplest manner my poor French would allow,
saying,--
"Oui, Auguste, Il est là, c'est vrai; mais Il est là aussi!"--and I pointed
to the snow-capped mountains on my right,--"et là!"--and I waved my
hand towards the deeply shadowed heights on the opposite side of the
valley.
He caught my meaning as by an inspiration. His fierce frown melted
instantly into an intelligent smile.
"Il est partout!" exclaimed the youth, with enthusiasm, his childlike,
eager eyes seeking a response in mine.

I nodded in affirmation of the truth. It was enough. Catholic and
Protestant had met on common ground,--we understood each other,--we
were reconciled.
Has he carried his large faith with him into the great metropolis? and
have I kept mine unshaken in spite of the storm that is raging in my
native land? Armed in his simplicity only, he has gone to meet the
gusts of temptation; and I have lived to see the Republic, which I
believed inviolable as Mother Earth herself, tremble and totter, as one
after another of her rotten pillars has fallen away. God grant that we
may both, in this day of our peril, be able, as then, to realize that "Il est
partout"!
During my short Alpine journey I held the office of paymaster for our
party, my election being due not so much to proficiency in the queer
dialect above alluded to as to courage in the use of it. It is always a
pleasant office to disburse the funds, but was never more so than when,
late at night, Michel and Auguste came to the hotel at Martigny to
receive the reward of their day's toil. Michel had his full dues in money,
and plenty of praise to boot; Auguste, evidently much to his surprise, a
trifle more than his minimum price. Each of them then grasped my
hand in his horny palm,--an unexpected salutation, but not a harsh one,
for each hand had a heart in it, or I believed it had, which was all the
same to me. They made the customary promise not to forget me, but
credulity must stop somewhere, and at this point I must confess my
easy faith gave out, and left me skeptical.
* * * * *
I have given the preference in order of narrative, as well as in memory,
to guides who proved competent, willing, and true, who, if they
seasoned the intercourse between us with a little encouragement to my
self-esteem, had nothing in them obsequious or timeserving, and who
set me a wholesome example of clear convictions and firmness in the
maintenance of right. But not only are the virtues of the race whom I
have chosen for a theme subjects of congratulation; even the
uncertainties and misfits of these frequently rusty keys to the past
excite a mirth that lightens the toil with which one rummages through

the corridors of time. It would be treason to tell the name of that
antique university-chapel where a certain wooden-headed verger was
betrayed into the absurdest error; it would be personal to give the name
of the waggish friend who made him his innocent butt; but the facts and
the joke claim no disguise.
The solemn British beadle had been rehearsing the history of numerous
sarcophagi and monuments, dwelling with mingled pathos and
indignation upon the injuries which the chapel, its railings, and its
statues had sustained at the hands of that arch-destroyer and his
soldiery who, in their zeal for the new Commonwealth, trampled
brutally upon the records of past grandeur and royalty.
"He stabled his 'osses 'ere! yes, 'ere,--in this wery chapel! ugh!" was the
wrathful exclamation of our guide; and as he pointed towards the
tablets without corners and the effigies lacking noses or feet, there was
a low muttering in his throat and a look at us intended to excite
sympathetic ire on our part.
One only of our party