AT MARSEILLES

Dominion, Volume 22, Issue 186, 4 May 1929, Page 4

AT MARSEILLES

WHERE THE GOLDEN VIRGIN GUARDS THE SEAS [By Nellie M. Scanlan.] Dominion Special Service. Marseilles, March 20. Marseilles has raced Paris with spring. The first faint pink blossoms paint the orchards, the first pale green tints the trees. All around, dead and brown, hang the great palms add the tropical trees, killed by the bitter frosts, a cold unprecedented. The old quay is like Singapore—Singapore without the smell. Tall old houses with shuttered windows huddle together along the waterfront, and sinister little streets creep up behind them, hiding their evil obscurity in deep shadows. Some are so narrow that four people could not walk abreast. From the windows a few tattered rags hang out to dry. It is Monday, and Monday is the whole world’s washing day. Small women with hard, wrinkled, dark faces, dressed in black, gossip bareheaded on the pavements. At the little tables long the pavements whole families sit drinking, the children sharing with the parents. A young woman, nursing a baby, drinks a goblet of wine. Two men are playing dominoes; an old woman is reading her prayers. Many of the women had bright purple socks, thick and knitted, pulled over their stockings. On little trays women with pointed caps made of newspapers sold fish, silver fish that glistened iu the sunlight on beds of wet green seaweed. Old men were mending their fishing nets and painting their boaats. Hundreds of little boats lay snugly at anchor, and a forest of masts swayed gently with the tide. They were getting ready for a new season. From two high steel towers a ferry is suspended, and our motor-car was swung across the old harbour iu a few minutes. In the outer harbour lay the big liners, ships from the north and south, the east and west. On the quay and up these tiny winding streets crowded sailors of every nationality. From all the ports of Europe they come; they spoke every tongue. Black faces from Africa, the Algerian, the Tunisian, and the slant eyes of the Oriental. They are the flotsam and jetsam of the seven seas. Again, there were fine, bronzed sailors, clear-eyed, gay young adventurers. Marseilles was a port, a haven for shipping, when our civilisation was very young. But even to-day the quayside is a place to avoid at night. High on the hilltop overlooking the bay, the city and the sea, is the famous church, Notre Dame de la Garde. The crypt of this church dates from the twelfth century, and from those .far-off days, the sailors have looked out for this guiding star. Now, on top of the campanile is a huge gilt statue of Our Lady on guard, which gleams in the sun, and can be seen many miles out to sea. This' is the sailors’ church, and the travellers’ church. Inside is a massive statue of the Virgin in solid silver, and all around are gifts, votive offerings, and simple acknowledgments of Our Lady's help in time of need, her mediation and intercession. Tiny models of ships, sailing vessels, yachts and passenger boats hang from the ceiling, models of ships that have survived great storms and perils at sea. Three tiny aeroplanes have now joined company with the ships. Hundreds of miniature marble tablets cover the walls, each inscribed with the date and a simple recognition of some special favour received or dire peril overcome. Many of the gifts are of great value that are placed at the foot of this shrine. Nor is it the sailor alone who has devotion to Notre Dame de La Garde. On one wall are the swords of officers, their badges, their honours, their medals, their decorations, gold epaulets, helmets, in ordered array, and with each a simple prayer of gratitude. There is a little church in Montreal on the banks of the St. Lawrence, where similar little ships hang from the ceiling, and in many a light is kept perpetually burning, the I.' ht of gratitude. Looking out across the city from the balustrade of the church, I saw the palace of the Empress Eugenie, built on the edge of the sea, and now a medical college, and the great cathedral built by Napoleon 111, still unfinished, a magnificent Byzantine monument; the mosaic floor alone took seven years to lay, and 12,000 people can be accommodated within its walls. But most interesting of all, out in the sparkling blue of the Mediterranean, were the grim, grey battlements of Chateau d’lf, the island of Monte Cristo. Here was the setting of Dumas’s thrilling story, and from the byways of memory .trooped out those violent and adventurous figures who were so vital and real, and as the sun sank lower, I dreamed on and on, flanked by faith and wrapt in romance.