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Close to the monolithic church is the cavern where the hermit Emilion is supposed to have dwelt. In order to see it, I had to find a little girl who kept the key, and who led the way down the steps with a lighted candle. St. Emilion might have looked far before finding a more unpleasant place to live in than this cavern.
So he wandered further south, and finding a rock in the forest above the Dordogne, wherein was a small cave, out of which flowed a spring, he took up his abode therein. His fame soon brought disciples to him, and gathered admirers about him; and after his death in 767, a monastery of Benedictine monks was settled there, and a town sprang up about it. The cave of S. Emilion still remains.
Barbaroux was also taken, after making an unsuccessful attempt to blow out his brains, and he, too, was guillotined at Bordeaux. Buzot and Petion stabbed themselves in a field between St. Emilion and Castillon, where their bodies were found half eaten by wolves. The seventh, Valady, was brought to the scaffold at Perigueux. Monsieur and Madame Bouquey met the same fate.
Emilion, and other strong places in the district. This was in the month of October, 1452. It was not until May of the following year that Charles VII. decided to risk the fortunes of war with the two armies which he had mustered one on the Garonne, and the other on the Charente. By that time the whole of Western Guyenne was again English.
Emilion; but ordered their beefsteak and pint of port from the "plump head-waiter at the Cock;" did not disdain the pit of the theatre; and for a supper a homely refection at the tavern. How delightful are the suppers in Charles Lamb to read of even now! the cards the punch the candles to be snuffed the social oysters the modest cheer! Whoever snuffs a candle now?
Emilion, but which have to be searched for by the visitor, is the cave where during the Reign of Terror seven of the Girondins sought refuge, and where they remained hidden from their persecutors several months, notwithstanding the unflagging efforts made to discover their retreat.
To the north of the Dordogne rose a grey cluster of buildings, the old town of S. Emilion, famous for its wine. It occupies the edge of a plateau. The only business pursued therein is the making of wine and of macaroons. The entrance to S. Emilion is not striking. None of its buildings, except the keep of its castle are visible.
Surely if history teaches anything, it teaches the vanity of politics. From Castillon I bent my course to St. Emilion on the road to Libourne; the Dordogne, which here twists like a snake in agony, being left somewhat to the south.
You dine at high table, and fare sumptuously every day; I take a commons of cold beef for lunch, and have tea off an egg and roll in my own rooms at seven. You drink St. Emilion or still hock; I drink water from the well or the cup that cheers but not obfuscates. The difference goes to pay for the crockery.
Emilion; it changes as soon as the vineyards reach the plain. It is then a vin de plaine, and is no more like the other than if it had been grown fifty miles away. Celtic remains point to the conclusion that, long before the foundation of the first monastery, which was the beginning of the mediaeval town, the Gauls had an oppidum on this hill. St.
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