Part 2

"Do not be so much surprised; for if by faith mountains may be moved, why should not charity heal death itself?"

The count, filled with wonder and delight, declared that the whole forest should become the property of the man who had done so much for him; and not that only, but that he should have as much good meadow-land as could be enclosed within the strips he had torn from his gown to bind the wounds, each strip being reduced to single threads. Thus Galonnek became the owner of a whole parish; and a proverb arose, which is still current in those parts, That it is with the length of a benefit received one must measure the field of gratitude.

Yet Galonnek was none the richer, notwithstanding the noble liberality of the count. All the income of his estate was given to the poor, whilst he still lived on in his leafy hermitage. But as many young men were attracted from the neighbourhood by his reputation for holiness and learning, he built many other cells beside his own; and thus from his school in that solitary glade the light of the Gospel went forth in time through all the length and breadth of the country.

It was amidst the perfume of wild-flowers, beside the murmuring brook, that Galonnek taught his pupils. He would teach them to understand somewhat of the providence of God by making them observe the tender care with which the little birds prepare a downy nest for offspring yet unborn. He would point out to their attention how the earth yields moisture to the roots of trees, how the trees become a dwelling-place for thrushes and for finches, and how these again make musical the forest with their cheerful strains, to illustrate the advantage and necessity of mutual benevolence and brotherly love. And when need was to stimulate their efforts or their perseverance, he would lead them to behold the ant, unwearied in her toil, or the constant woodpecker whose tiny bill achieves the scooping of an oak.

But this teaching did not confine him in one place; and wherever he went his presence was as that of a star in the midst of darkness.

Now in those days the inhabitants of Brittany still exercised the right of wrecking, or in other words, reserved to themselves the privilege of plundering any unfortunate vessels thrown upon their coasts. They spoke of the sea as a cow given to their ancestors by God, and that brought forth every winter for their benefit; thus they looked on shipwrecks as a positive blessing.

One night, during a heavy storm, as Galonnek was returning to his forest from the sick-bed of a poor man, he saw the dwellers on the coast leading a bull along the rocks. His head was bound down towards his fore-legs, and a beacon-light was fastened to his horns. The crippled gait of the animal gave an oscillating motion to the light, which might be well mistaken at a distance for the lantern of a ship pitching out at sea, and thus deceive bewildered vessels, uncertain in the tempest of their course, into the notion of yet being far from shore. Already one thus treacherously beguiled was on its way to ruin, and might be seen close upon the rocks, its full white sails gleaming through the night; another moment and it would have been aground among the breakers.

Galonnek rushed amidst the peasants, extinguished the false beacon, and reproached them for such treachery. But they would not listen to him, and prepared to rekindle the light. Then the saint cried,

"By all your hopes in this world and the next, have done! for it is your own brethren and children that you are drawing to destruction."

And whilst they stood uncertain, God kindled up the sky with flashing lightning; and beholding the vessel as if it had been noonday, they saw that it was indeed a Breton ship.

Terrified by the dangers to which they had exposed themselves, they all fell down at the saint's feet; the women kissed the hem of his garment with floods of tears, as if his hands had rescued their sons from the depths of the sea, and all with one voice exclaimed,

"But for him we should have become the murderers of our friends and neighbours."

"Alas, those whom you have already lured to death were equally your neighbours and your friends," replied St. Galonnek; "for we are all descended from Adam, and have been ransomed by the blood of the same God."

The peasants, deeply moved, perceived their guilt, and promised to renounce this custom of their fathers.

Much about the same time, the country of Pluguffant was ravaged by a dragon, which devoured whole flocks with their shepherds and dogs. In vain had the most courageous men banded themselves together to destroy it. The ferocious monster had put them all to flight; and now nobody dared to stir out of doors to lead his cattle to water, or go and work in the fields. As soon as Galonnek knew this sad state of things, he set out for the court of the Count of Cornouaille, and asked there which knight was the most valiant before God and man. Every voice declared him to be Messire Tanguy de Carfor, who had made a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre, and killed more than a thousand Saracens with his own hand.

Galonnek desired him to gird on his sword and armour, and to come and fight the dragon, which God had given him a mission to destroy. Carfor instantly armed himself, and accompanied the saint to the monster's den, from which he came out, howling frightfully at their approach.

Carfor hesitated in spite of himself at so unwonted an appearance; but Galonnek said to him,

"For your soul's sake, messire, have confidence in God, and you shall kill this monster as easily as a gadfly."

Thus encouraged, the knight advanced to the attack, and with scarce an effort pierced the dragon three times through with his sword, whilst the saint called upon the three Persons of the Most Holy Trinity.

Galonnek also freed the country from many other scourges, such as wolves, reptiles, and mosquitoes with fiery stings; and being now old enough to receive holy orders, he was ordained by St. Pol; and built a little chapel beside his oratory, where every day he celebrated Mass.

Meanwhile the leafy cells around him multiplied so fast, that at last they were united in a monastery, called by Galonnek Youlmad, or the house of good desires.

He was engaged in drawing up a rule for this monastery, when he was interrupted by a disturbing rumour which arose in the neighbourhood.

It was said that a woman clothed in red, and with a ghastly countenance, had taken passage in a fishing-boat from Crozon. She landed near Poullons; and when questioned as to her name on departing, she had replied that she was called the Lady of Pestilence. And, in fact, it came to pass, that within a very few days both men and animals were smitten with a contagious disease, which carried them off after a few hours' illness. So great was the mortality, that wood sufficient for the coffins could not be found; and for want of grave-diggers, the corpses were laid to rest in furrows hollowed by the plough.

Those who were well off gathered all their effects together in wagons, and harnessing all the horses they possessed, drove away at full speed to the mountains, which the pallid woman had not passed. But the poorer people, who had no means of conveyance, and were unwilling to leave their little all, awaited their doom at home, like sheep lying down to rest around the butcher's door.

In this extremity, however, they were not abandoned by Galonnek. He went from hut to hut, carrying aid or consolation. Linen for shrouds and wood for coffins might indeed be wanting; but he swathed the fever-spotted dead in leafy twigs, and bore them in his own arms to consecrated earth, laying them down tenderly as sleeping infants in their cradle-bed. Then planting a branch of yew, and another of blossoming broom, he entwined them in the form of a cross, and set them as an emblem on the grave; the yew symbolising the sorrow which underlies the whole course of life, and the blossoming broom the transitory joys which gleam across it. And it is said, that when at last the pestilence was stayed, these holy crosses covered a space of three days' journey. So many generous and pious acts had spread the fame of Galonnek both far and wide, and all Cornouaille was inflamed with devotion. Persons came from all parts to the convent of Good Desires to listen to his teaching, to ask his prayers, and to offer him gifts; but these the saint only accepted for the purposes of charity.

"The priest," he used to say, "is only as a canal, which serves to carry water from overflowing streams to arid barren plains."

Another of his sayings was, "God has given us two hands; one with which to receive His good treasures, and the other to administer the same to those who need."

And thus, although the neighbouring nobles had loaded him with presents, his monastery and church were radiant only with his good actions. He was accustomed to sleep upon an osier hurdle, and wore nothing better than a gown of faded serge. But all this external poverty threw out with stronger lustre the brightness of his hidden worth; and Galonnek was like one of those caskets made of earth or bark, in which are treasured rubies and carbuncles.

The see of Cornouaille becoming vacant, Galonnek was summoned with one voice to fill it. He was anxious to refuse; but St. Pol himself came to find him out, and said to him that God's stars have no right to conceal themselves in the grass, but must take their places in the firmament. Then St. Galonnek resigned himself; but when the moment came for leaving the turfen oratory, where he had spent the best part of his life, his heart became so heavy that he burst into tears, and cried aloud, "Alas, how shall I become worthy of the new office which my brethren impose upon me?" Then, falling on his knees, he prayed most fervently until God put strength into his heart. When he arose, he took the humble chalice he had been accustomed to use, his sole possession, save the memory of his good deeds, and went on foot to the capital of Cornouaille, where he was consecrated Bishop.

Here began for St. Galonnek a new life of courage and self-denial. He had to fight for the poor against the rich, for the weak against the mighty. When his friends and disciples beheld him engage, all unprotected, in these dangerous struggles, even the most courageous were at times dismayed; but Galonnek would say with a smile, "Fear not, my friends, their weapons cannot touch me. God Himself has forged for me a breastplate with the tears of the sorrowful, the miseries of the poor, and the despair of the oppressed. Behind this armour I can feel no hurt. Blows can only do us mischief by glancing across us at any of those who have taken up our cause; for from our very heart distils a balsam that can heal as they come all the wounds inflicted from without."

Moved by the sight of so much virtue, many powerful noblemen, who had hitherto persisted in idolatry, came to ask of Galonnek instruction and the grace of baptism; but he would only grant this favour in reward for some good work. If any one had sinned, and came to seek for absolution, Galonnek would give him for a penance some virtuous action to perform, some charitable service to his fellow-men. He taught them to regard God as the surety for recompenses merited but not received, to invest their lives in Paradise, to break every tie which holds the soul in bondage, that it may spring forward with unfettered flight in the love of God and man.

About this time the Count of Cornouaille died, and was succeeded by his son Tugduval. He was a conceited, vain-glorious youth, who could not endure the least contradiction, and had not yet lived long enough to find that life is an instrument on which the first chords we strike are invariably false.

So unjust had he shown himself in many instances to the townspeople and gentry, that they banded together and drove him from the city. But Tugduval asked assistance from the Count of Vannes, and soon returned with an army to which the rebels could offer no resistance. Multitudes were slain in battle, and the survivors taking refuge in the city, were besieged there by the count.

He rode round the city-walls, like a hungry wolf parading a sheepfold, swearing never to forgive one of the rebels, or those who had given them shelter.

So battering-rams were brought, and raised against the walls; and when once a passage was forced, he mounted his war-horse, and ordering every soldier to take a naked sword in one hand, and a lighted torch in the other, he rushed at their head into the affrighted city.

But Galonnek had seen the terror of the conquered people, who only looked for fire and sword; and coming out of the cathedral, with all his priests in procession, bearing crosses and all their sacred relics, he came the first to meet Tugduval, his bald head uncovered, and his chalice in his hand.

The young count, astonished, checked his horse; but Galonnek went straight up to his saddle-bow, there paused, and said in a gentle voice, "If any will devour the flock, he must begin by slaying the shepherd. I am here at your mercy, and am ready to purchase with my blood forgiveness for the rest."

At the sight of this holy old man, whom he had early been taught to reverence, and at that voice which had always sounded like a benediction, Tugduval felt his rage dissolve away; and letting fall his sword, he bent over his horse's neck, and kissed devoutly the chalice carried by St. Galonnek. At that instant all the soldiers, as if touched by the same emotion, put out their torches, and turned their sword-points to the ground, crying as with one voice, "Quarter, quarter for all!"

The young count waited not a repetition of this prayer; but dismounting hastily, he followed the Bishop to the cathedral, where the conquerors and the conquered joined in songs of thanksgiving to God.

This was the last great act of St. Galonnek's life. A very few months after, he felt his strength decay, and knew that his end was near. He did not, however, on that account relax in his good works. Returning one day from a visit to a poor widow bereaved of her last son, he suddenly found himself unable to proceed, and sat down to rest upon a stone by the wayside. There a pedlar from the mountains found him, some time after, sitting motionless; and thinking that he slept, the man approached him, when he saw that he was dead. Judging from the poverty of his apparel, the pedlar took him for a hermit of the neighbourhood, and out of Christian charity wrapped the body in his mantle for a funeral shroud. A shoemaker's wife, who lived a few steps off, contributed an old chest to serve as a coffin, so that Bishop Galonnek came to his grave like a beggar.

But the truth was soon discovered by the miracles which were wrought at his tomb; and the body being taken from the earth, was carried with great state to the city, and buried at the foot of the high altar in the cathedral. St. Pol was requested to write an epitaph upon him; but the apostle of Léon replied that none but an archangel could compose one; so they merely covered the grave with a plain granite slab, on which was carved the name of Galonnek.

Ages have passed away, and yet this stone still remains, and thither the Breton mothers come to lay their new-born babes one instant on its consecrated bosom, whilst they repeat the usual form of prayer:

"Saint Galonnek, bestow upon my child two hearts. Give him the heart of a lion, that he may be strong in well-doing; and give him the heart of a turtle-dove, that he may be full of brotherly love."

The feast of St. Galonnek is celebrated on the 1st of April, when the buds of the hedgerows are bursting into leaf, and "the time of the singing of birds is come."

THE KORILS OF PLAUDEN.

There dwelt formerly in the land of White-Wheat, as well as in Cornouaille, a race of dwarfs, or Korigans, who, being divided into four nations or tribes, inhabited the woods, the commons, the valleys, and the farms. Those dwelling in the woods were called Kornikaneds, because they played on little horns, which hung suspended from their girdles; the inhabitants of the commons were called Korils, from their spending all their nights in dancing by moonlight; the dwellers in the valleys were Poulpikans, from their homes lying so low; and the Teuz were wild black men, living near the meadows and the wheat-fields; but as the other Korigans accused them of being too friendly with Christians, they were forced to take flight into Léon, where probably there may still be some of them remaining.

At the time of which I speak, there were only then hereabouts the Kornikaneds, the Poulpikans, and the Korils; but they abounded in such numbers, that after dark few people cared to venture near their stony palaces.

Above all, there lay in Plauden, near the little market-town of Loqueltas, a common known as Motenn-Dervenn, or place of oaks, whereon there stood an extensive Koril village, that may be seen there to this very day. The mischievous dwarfs came out to dance there every night; and any one adventurous enough to cross the common at that time was sure to be entrapped into their mazy chain, and forced to wheel about with them till earliest cockcrow; so that the place was universally avoided after nightfall.

One evening, however, Benead Guilcher, returning with his wife from a field, where he had been doing a day's work in ploughing for a farmer of Cadougal, took his way across the haunted heath because it was so much the shortest road. It was still early, and he hoped that the Korigans might not have yet begun their dance; but when he came half-way over the Motenn-Dervenn, he perceived them scattered round about the blocks of stone, like birds on a field of corn. He would fain have turned him back; but the horns of the wood-dwarfs, and the call-cries of the valley-imps, already rose behind him. Benead felt his legs tremble, and said to his wife,

"Saint Anne, we are done for! Here come the Kornikaneds and the Poulpikans to join the Korils for their midnight ball. They will make us dance with them till daybreak; and it is more than my poor heart can endure."

And, in fact, the troops of Korigans assembling from all parts, came round about poor Guilcher and his wife like flies in August to a drop of honey, but started back on seeing in his hand the little fork Benead had been using to clear the ploughshare, and began to sing with one accord,

"Let him be, let her be, The plough-fork has he! Let them go on their way, The fork carry they!"

Guilcher instantly perceived that the instrument he held in his hand acted as a charm against the power of the Korigans; and he and his wife passed unmolested through the very midst of them.

This was a hint to every body. From that day forward it became a universal custom to take out the little fork of an evening; and thus armed, any one might cross the heaths and valleys without fear of hindrance.

But Benead was not satisfied with having rendered this service to the Bretons; he was an inquisitive as well as an intelligent man, and as merry a hunchback as any in the four Breton bishoprics. For I have omitted to tell you that Benead carried from his birth a hump betwixt his shoulders, with which he would thankfully have parted at cost-price. He was looked on also as an honest workman, who laboured conscientiously for daily bread, and moreover well deserved the character of a good Christian.

One evening, unable to resist the wish, he took his little fork, commended himself devoutly to St. Anne, and set off towards the Motenn-Dervenn.

The Korils saw him from a distance, and ran to him, crying,

"It is Benead Guilcher!"

"Yes, it is I, my little men," replied the jovial hunchback; "I have come to pay you a friendly visit."

"You are welcome," replied the Korils. "Will you have a dance with us?"

"Excuse me, my good folks," replied Guilcher, "but your breath is too long for a poor invalid."

"We will stop whenever you like," cried the Korils.

"Will you promise that?" said Benead, who was not unwilling to try a round with them, as much for the novelty of the thing as that he might have it to talk about.

"We will promise thee," said the dwarfs.

"By the Saviour's cross?"

"By the Saviour's cross."

The hunchback, satisfied that such an oath secured him from all dangers, took his place in their chain; and the Korils began their round, singing their accustomed song:

"Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday; Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday." [4]

In a few minutes Guilcher stopped.

"With all due deference to you, good gentlefolks," said he to the dwarfs, "your song and dance seem to me very monotonous. You stop too early in the week; and without having much claim to be a skilful stringer of rhymes, I fancy I can lengthen the chorus."

"Let us see, let us see!" cried the dwarfs.

Then the hunchback replied,

"Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday."

A great tumult arose amongst the Korils.

"Stard! stard!" [5] cried they, surrounding Guilcher; "you are a bold singer and a fine dancer. Repeat it once more."

The hunchback repeated,

"Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday,"

whilst the Korils wheeled about in mad delight. At last they stopped, and pressing round about Guilcher, they cried with one voice,

"What will you have? what do you want? riches or beauty? Speak a wish, and we will fulfil it for you."

"Are you in earnest?" asked the labourer.

"May we be doomed to pick up grain by grain all the millet in the diocese, if we deceive thee," they replied.

"Well," said Guilcher, "if you want to make me a present, and leave me to choose what it shall be, I have one thing only to desire from you, and that is, that you take away what I have got here set betwixt my shoulders, and make me as straight as the flagstaff of Loqueltas."

"Good, good!" replied the Korils. "Be easy, come here." And seizing Guilcher, they threw him in the air, tossing him from one to another like a worsted ball, until he had made the round of the entire circle. Then he fell upon his feet, giddy, breathless, but--without his hump! Benead had grown younger, fatter, beautiful! Except his mother, no one could have recognised him.

You may guess the surprise his appearance created on his return to Loqueltas. No one could believe it was Guilcher; his wife herself was doubtful about receiving him. Before she could recognise in him her old humpback, he was compelled to tell her exactly how many headdresses she had in her press, and what was the colour of her stockings. At last, when every body knew for certain that it was he, they became wonderfully anxious to find out what had effected so strange a transformation; but Benead thought that if he told the truth, he should be looked on as an accomplice of the Korigans; and that every time an ox strayed, or a goat was lost, he should be applied to for its restoration. So he told all those who asked him questions, that it happened unknown to him whilst sleeping on the heath. Thenceforth went all the crooked folk who were silly enough to believe him, and spent their nights upon the open heath, hoping to rise like arrows in the morning; but many people suspected that there was a secret in the matter, which Guilcher was unwilling to disclose.