This beast having been
damned by ecclesiastical sculptors in France as early as the twelfth
century, and probably earlier, it is not surprising that a polite peasant,
when he mentions it by name, often excuses himself for his supposed breach
of good manners by adding: '_Sauf votre respect_.'
Nearing a village not far from Souillac, and wondering the while what had
become of the picturesque, I saw, as if by enchantment, a few yards away, a
little old church covered with ivy, and surrounded by tombstones that were
stained with the dead colours of last winter's lichen; one leaning this
way, another that, but all going down into the grassy graves. A few chairs
and a single bench told that the people who came here to pray were not many
nor rich. Most of the flagstones were broken, and the altar was almost
simple enough to please a Calvinist. It was the simplicity, not of
intention, but of poverty. Are such churches--lost amidst the pensive
trees, or bathed by the tender evening light upon the vine-clad
hillside--doubly hallowed, or is it the poetry of old memories and ideal
pictures stored away behind a multitude of newer impressions that moves us
like the wind-blown strains of half-forgotten melodies as we pass them in
our wanderings?
Evening found me by the Dordogne, that flowed calmly in a salmon-coloured
light, thrown down by a wasteful stony hill, itself lit up by a reflected
glow of the sinking sun.
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