_Lat._ Sanctus Michael Angelus. _Ital._ San Michele, Sammichele.
_Fr._ Monseigneur Saint Michel. (Sept. 29.)
‘Michael, the Great Prince that standeth for the children of thy
people.’—_Dan._ xii. 1.
It is difficult to clothe in adequate language the divine attributes
with which painting and poetry have invested this illustrious
archangel. Jews and Christians are agreed in giving him the
pre-eminence over all created spirits. All the might, the majesty,
the radiance, of Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Virtues, Powers,
are centred in him. In him God put forth his strength when He exalted
him chief over the celestial host, when angels warred with angels
in heaven; and in him God showed forth his glory when He made him
conqueror over the power of sin, and ‘over the great dragon that
deceived the world.’
To the origin of the worship paid to this great archangel I dare not do
more than allude, lest I stray wide from my subject, and lose myself,
and my readers too, in labyrinths of Orientalism. But, in considering
the artistic representations, it is interesting to call to mind that
the glorification of St. Michael may be traced back to that primitive
Eastern dogma, the perpetual antagonism between the Spirit of Good and
the Spirit of Evil, mixed up with the Chaldaic belief in angels and
their influence over the destinies of man. It was subsequent to the
Captivity that the active Spirit of Good, under the name of Michael,
came to be regarded as the especial protector of the Hebrew nation: the
veneration paid to him by the Jews was adopted, or rather retained,
by the Oriental Christians, and, though suppressed for a time, was
revived and spread over the West, where we find it popular and almost
universal from the eighth century.
The legends which have grown out of a few mystical texts of Scripture,
amplified by the fanciful disquisitions of the theological writers,
place St. Michael before us in three great characters:—1. As captain of
the heavenly host, and conqueror of the powers of hell. 2. As lord of
souls, conductor and guardian of the spirits of the dead. 3. As patron
saint and prince of the Church Militant.
* * * * *
When Lucifer, possessed by the spirit of pride and ingratitude, refused
to fall down and worship the Son of man, Michael was deputed to punish
his insolence, and to cast him out from heaven. Then Michael chained
the revolted angels in middle air, where they are to remain till the
day of judgment, being in the mean time perpetually tortured by hate,
envy, and despair: for they behold man, whom they had disdained,
exalted as their superior; above them they see the heaven they have
forfeited; and beneath them the redeemed souls continually rising from
earth, and ascending to the presence of God, whence they are shut out
for ever.
‘Now,’ says the old Legend,[63] ‘if it be asked wherefore the books of
Moses, in revealing the disobedience and the fall of man, are silent
as to the revolt and the fall of the angels, the reason is plain; and
in this God acted according to his wisdom. For, let us suppose that a
certain powerful lord hath two vassals, both guilty of the crime of
treason, and one of these is a nobleman of pure and lofty lineage,
and the other a base-born churl:—what doth this lord? He hangs up the
churl in the market-place as a warning and example to others;—but, for
the nobleman, fearing the scandal that may arise among the people, and
perhaps also some insult to the officers of the law, the judge causes
him to be tried secretly, and shuts him up in a dungeon; and when
judgment is pronounced against him, he sends to his prison, and puts
him privily to death; and when one asketh after him, the answer is only
“He is dead:”—and nothing more. Thus did God in respect to the rebel
angels of old; and their fate was not revealed until the redemption of
man was accomplished.’
This passage from the old Italian legend is so curiously characteristic
of the feudal spirit of Christianity in the middle ages, that I have
ventured to insert it verbatim. If religion did, in some degree, modify
the institutions of chivalry, in a much greater degree did the ruling
prejudices of a barbarian age modify the popular ideas of religion.
Here, notwithstanding the primary doctrine of Christ—the equality of
all men before God, we have the distinction between noble and churl
carried into the very councils of Heaven.
But, to return to St. Michael: on whom, as the leader of his triumphant
hosts, God bestowed many and great privileges. To him it was given
to bid sound th’ archangel trumpet,
and exalt the banner of the Cross in the day of judgment; and to him
likewise was assigned the reception of the immortal spirits when
released by death. It was his task to weigh them in a balance (Dan. v.
27; Ps. lxii. 9): those whose good works exceeded their demerits, he
presented before the throne of God; but those who were found wanting
he gave up to be tortured in purgatory, until their souls, from being
‘as crimson, should become as white as snow.’ Therefore, in the hour
of death, he is to be invoked by the faithful, saying, ‘_O Michael,
militiæ cœlestis signifer, in adjutorium nostrum veni, princeps et
propugnator!_’
Lastly, when it pleased the Almighty to select from among the nations
of the earth one people to become peculiarly his own, He appointed St.
Michael to be president and leader over that chosen people.[64] ‘At
that time shall Michael stand up, the great prince which standeth for
the children of thy people’ (Dan. x. 13, xii. 1): and when the power of
the Synagogue was supposed to cease, and to be replaced by the power
of the Church, so that the Christians became the people of God, then
Michael, who had been the great prince of the Hebrew people, became
the prince and leader of the Church militant in Christendom, and the
guardian of redeemed souls, against his old adversary the Prince of
Hell. (Rev. xii. 6, 7.)
The worship paid to St. Michael, and which originated in the far
East, is supposed to have been adopted by the Oriental Christians
in consequence of a famous apparition of the Archangel at Colossæ,
in Phrygia, which caused him to be held in especial honour by the
people of that city, and perhaps occasioned the particular warning
of St. Paul addressed to the Colossians. But although the worship of
angels was considered among the heresies of the early Church, we find
Constantine no sooner master of the empire, and a baptized Christian,
than he dedicates a church to the Archangel Michael (by his Greek
name Michaëlion), and this church, one of the most magnificent in
Constantinople, became renowned for its miracles, and the parent and
model of hundreds more throughout the East.
In the West, the honours paid to St. Michael are of later date: that
a church dedicated to him must have existed in Rome long before the
year 500 seems clear, because at that time it is mentioned as having
fallen into ruin. But the West had its angelic apparitions as well as
the East, and St. Michael owes his wide-spread popularity in the middle
ages to three famous visions which are thus recorded.
In the fifth century, in the city of Siponte, in Apulia (now
Manfredonia), dwelt a man named Galgano or Garganus, very rich in
cattle, sheep, and beasts; and as they pastured on the sides of the
mountain, it happened that a bull strayed and came not home: then the
rich man took a multitude of servants and sought the bull, and found
him at the entrance of a cave on the very summit of the mountain,
and, being wroth with the bull, the master ordered him to be slain;
but when the arrow was sent from the bow it returned to the bosom of
him who sent it, and he fell dead on the ground: then the master and
his servants were troubled, and they sent to inquire of the bishop
what should be done. The bishop, having fasted and prayed three days,
beheld in a vision the glorious Archangel Michael, who descended on
the mountain, and told him that the servant had been slain because he
had violated a spot peculiarly sacred to him, and he commanded that a
church should be erected and sanctified there to his honour. And when
they entered the cavern they found there three altars already erected,
one of them covered with a rich embroidered altar-cloth of crimson
and gold, and a stream of limpid water springing from the rock, which
healed all diseases. So the church was built, and the fame of the
vision of Monte Galgano, though for some time confined to the south of
Italy, spread throughout Europe, and many pilgrimages were made to the
spot on which the angelic footsteps had alighted.
The second vision is much more imposing. When Rome was nearly
depopulated by a pestilence in the sixth century, St. Gregory,
afterwards pope, advised that a procession should be made through
the streets of the city, singing the service since called the Great
Litanies. He placed himself at the head of the faithful, and during
three days they perambulated the city; and on the third day, when
they had arrived opposite to the mole of Hadrian, Gregory beheld the
Archangel Michael alight on the summit of that monument, and sheathe
his sword bedropped with blood. Then Gregory knew that the plague
was stayed, and a church was there dedicated to the honour of the
Archangel: and the Tomb of Hadrian has since been called the Castle of
Sant’ Angelo to this day.
This, of all the recorded apparitions of St. Michael, is the only one
which can be called poetical; it is evidently borrowed from the vision
of the destroying angel in Scripture. As early as the ninth century, a
church or chapel dedicated to St. Michael was erected on the summit of
the huge monument, which at that time must have preserved much of its
antique magnificence. The church was entitled _Ecclesia Sancti Angeli
usque ad Cœlos_. The bronze statue, which in memory of this miracle now
surmounts the Castle of St. Angelo, was placed there in recent times
by Benedict XIV., and is the work of a Flemish sculptor, Verschaffelt.
I suppose no one ever looked at this statue critically—at least, for
myself, I never could: nor can I remember now, whether, as a work of
art, it is above or below criticism; perhaps both. With its vast wings,
poised in air, as seen against the deep blue skies of Rome, or lighted
up by the golden sunset, to me it was ever like what it was intended to
represent—like a vision.
A third apparition was that accorded to Aubert, bishop of Avranches
(A.D. 706). This holy man seems to have been desirous to attract to his
own diocese a portion of that sanctity (and perhaps other advantages)
which Monte Galgano derived from the worship of St. Michael. In
the Gulf of Avranches, in Normandy, stands a lofty isolated rock
inaccessible from the land at high water, and for ages past celebrated
as one of the strongest fortresses and state prisons in France. In
the reign of Childebert II., St. Aubert, bishop of Avranches, had a
vision, in which the Archangel Michael commanded him to repair to
this rock, then the terror of mariners, and erect a church to his
honour on the highest point, where a bull would be found concealed,
and it was to cover as much space as the bull had trampled with his
hoofs: he also discovered to the bishop a well-spring of pure water,
which had before been unknown. As the bishop treated this command as
a dream, the Archangel appeared to him a second and a third time; and
at length, to impress it on his waking memory, he touched his head
with his thumb, and made a mark or hole in his skull, which he carried
to the grave. This time the bishop obeyed, and a small church was
built on the spot indicated; afterwards replaced by the magnificent
Abbey Church, which was begun by Richard duke of Normandy, in 966, and
finished by William the Conqueror. The poverty of invention shown in
this legend, which is little more than a repetition of that of Monte
Galgano, is very disappointing to the fancy, considering the celebrity
of Mont-Saint-Michel as a place of pilgrimage, and as one of the most
picturesque objects in European scenery, with its massive towers, which
have braved the tempests of a thousand years, rising from the summit
of the peak, and the sea weltering round its base. It failed not,
however, in the effect anticipated. The worship of St. Michael became
popular in France from the ninth century; the Archangel was selected
as patron saint of France, and of the military order instituted in his
honour by Louis XI. in 1469. The worship paid to St. Michael as patron
saint of Normandy naturally extended itself to England after the Norman
conquest, and churches dedicated to this archangel abound in all the
towns and cities along the southern and eastern shores of our island;
we also have a Mount St. Michael on the coast of Cornwall, in situation
and in name resembling that on the coast of France. At this day there
are few cities in Christendom which do not contain a church or churches
dedicated to St. Michael, some of them of great antiquity.
I must not omit that St. Michael is considered as the angel of good
counsel:—that ‘Le vrai office de Monseigneur Saint Michel est de faire
grandes revelations aux hommes en bas, en leur donnant moult saints
conseils,’ and in particular, ‘sur le bon nourissement que le père
et la mère donnent à leurs enfans.’[65] It is to be regretted that
‘Monseigneur Saint Michel’ should be found rather remiss in this part
of his angelic functions.
* * * * *
We shall now see how far these various traditions and popular notions
concerning St. Michael have been carried out in Art.
In all representations of St. Michael, the leading idea, well or ill
expressed, is the same. He is young and beautiful, but ‘severe in
youthful beauty,’ as one who carries on a perpetual contest with the
powers of evil. In the earlier works of art he is robed in white, with
ample many-coloured wings, and bears merely the sceptre or the lance
surmounted by a cross, as one who conquered by spiritual might alone.
But in the later representations, those coloured by the spirit of
chivalry, he is the angelic Paladin, armed in a dazzling coat of mail,
with sword, and spear, and shield. He has a lofty open brow, long fair
hair floating on his shoulders, sometimes bound by a jewelled tiara;
sometimes, but not often, shaded by a helmet. From his shoulders spring
two resplendent wings. Thus we see him standing by the throne of the
Madonna, or worshipping at the feet of the Divine Infant; an exquisite
allegory of spiritual and intellectual power protecting purity and
adoring innocence.
There is a most beautiful little figure by Angelico, of St. Michael
standing in his character of archangel and patron of the Church
Militant, ‘as the winged saint;’ no demon, no attribute except the
lance and shield. The attitude, so tranquilly elegant, may be seen in
this sketch (34). In the original the armour is of a dark crimson and
gold, the wings are of rainbow tints, vivid and delicate; a flame of
lambent fire rests on the brow.
But the single devotional figures of St. Michael usually represent
him as combining the two great characters of captain of the heavenly
host, and conqueror of the powers of hell. He stands armed, setting
his foot on Lucifer, either in the half-human or the dragon form, and
is about to transfix him with his lance, or to chain him down in the
infernal abyss. Such, however varied in the attitude, expression, and
accessories, is the most frequent and popular representation of St.
Michael, when placed before us, as the universally received emblem of
the final victory of good over evil.
[Illustration: 34 St. Michael. (Angelico, Fl. Acad.)]
In those churches of Christendom which have not been defaced by a
blind destructive zeal, this image meets us at every turn: it salutes
us in the porch as we enter, or it shines upon us in gorgeous colours
from the window, or it is wreathed into the capitals of columns, or it
stands in its holy heroic beauty over the altar. It is so common and
so in harmony with our inmost being, that we rather feel its presence
than observe it. It is the visible, palpable reflection of that great
truth stamped into our very souls, and shadowed forth in every form
of ancient belief,—the final triumph of the spiritual over the animal
and earthly part of our nature. This is the secret of its perpetual
repetition, and this the secret of the untired complacency with which
we regard it; for even in the most inefficient attempts at expression,
we have always the leading _motif_ distinct and true, the winged virtue
is always victorious above, and the bestial vice is always prostrate
below: and if to this primal moral significance be added all the charm
of poetry, grace, animated movement, which human genius has lavished
on this ever blessed, ever welcome symbol, then, as we look up at
it, we are ‘not only touched, but wakened and inspired,’ and the
whole delighted imagination glows with faith and hope, and grateful
triumphant sympathy,—so at least I have felt, and I must believe that
others have felt it too.
In the earliest representations of this subject, we see the simplest
form of the allegory, literally rendering the words of Scripture,
‘The dragon shalt thou trample under foot’ (Ps. xci. 13). Here there
is no risk of a divided interest or a misdirected sympathy. The
demon, grovelling under the feet of the victorious spirit, is not the
star-bright apostate who drew after him the third part of heaven; it
is the bestial malignant reptile:—not the emblem of resistance, but
the emblem of sin; not of the sin that aspires, which, in fact, is a
contradiction in terms;—no sin aspires;—but of the sin which degrades
and brutifies, as all sin does. In the later representations, where the
demon takes the half-human shape, however hideous and deformed, the
allegory may so be brought nearer to us, and rendered more terrible
even by a horrid sympathy with that human face, grinning in despite and
agony; but much of the beauty of the scriptural metaphor is lost.[66]
* * * * *
The representations of St. Michael and the dragon are so multifarious
that I can only select a few among them as examples of the different
styles of treatment.
The symbol, as such, is supposed to have originated with the Gnostics
and Arians, and the earliest examples are to be found in the ancient
churches on the western coast of Italy, and the old Lombard churches.
I have never seen it in the old mosaics of the sixth century, but in
the contemporary sculpture frequently. It would be difficult to point
to the most ancient example, such is the confusion of dates as regards
dedications, restorations, alterations; but I remember a carving in
white marble on the porch of the Cathedral of Cortona (about the
seventh century), which may be regarded as an example of this primitive
style of treatment: the illustration, from a slight sketch made on the
spot, will be better than any description (35).
Another instance will be remembered by the traveller in Italy, the
strange antique bas-relief on the façade of that extraordinary old
church the San Michele at Pavia; not the figure in the porch, which
is modern, but that which is above. In the Menologium Grecum is a St.
Michael standing with a long sceptre, a majestic colossal figure, while
kneeling angels adore him, and the demons crouch under his feet.[67]
[Illustration: 35]
By Martin Schoen: St. Michael, attired in a long loose robe and
floating mantle, tramples on the demon; he has thrown down the shield,
and with his lance in both hands, but without effort, and even with a
calm angelic dignity, prepares to transfix his adversary. The figure is
singularly elegant. The demon has not here the usual form of a dragon,
but is a horrible nondescript reptile, with multitudinous flexile
claws, like those of a crab, stretched out to seize and entangle the
unwary;—for an emblematical figure, very significant (36). In an old
fresco by Guariente di Padova[68] the angel is draped as in Martin
Schoen’s figure, but the attitude is far less elegant.
Sometimes the dragon has a small head at the end of his tail, instead
of the forked sting. I recollect an instance of St. Michael transfixing
the large head, while a smaller angel, also armed, transfixes the other
head.[69] This is an attempt to render literally the description in the
Apocalypse: ‘For their power is in their mouth, and in their tails:
for their tails were like unto serpents, and had heads, and with them
they do hurt.’ (Rev. ix. 19.) In a most elegant figure of St. Michael,
from the choir of the San Giovanni, at Malta, I found the demon thus
characterised, with a tail ending in the serpent head.
In an old Siena picture[70] St. Michael is seated on a throne: in one
hand a sword, in the other the orb of sovereignty; under his feet lies
the dragon mangled and bleeding: a bad picture, but curious for the
singular treatment.
[Illustration: 36 St. Michael (Martin Schoen)]
In the sixteenth century these figures of St. Michael become less
ideal and angelic, and more and more chivalrous and picturesque. In
a beautiful altar-piece by Andrea del Sarto, now in the Florence
Academy, there is a fine martial figure of the Archangel, which,
but for the wings, might be mistaken for a St. George; and in the
predella underneath, on a small scale, he is conqueror of the demon.
The peculiarity here is, that the demon, though vanquished, makes a
vain struggle, and has seized hold of the belt of the angel, who, with
uplifted sword, and an action of infinite grace and dignity, looks
superior down, as one assured of victory.
Raphael has given us three figures of St. Michael, all different, and
one of them taking rank with his masterpieces.
The first is an early production, painted when he was a youth of
nineteen or twenty, and now in the Louvre. St. Michael, armed with a
shield on which is a red cross, his sword raised to strike, stands with
one foot on a monster; other horrible little monsters, like figures in
a dream, are around him: in the background are seen the hypocrites and
thieves as described by Dante; the first, in melancholy procession,
weighed down with leaden cowls; the others, tormented by snakes: and,
in the distance, the flaming dolorous city. St. Michael is here the
vanquisher of the Vices. It is a curious and fantastic, rather than
poetical, little picture.
The second picture, also in the Louvre, was painted by Raphael, in the
maturity of his talent, for Francis I.: the king had left to him the
choice of the subject, and he selected St. Michael, the military patron
of France, and of that knightly Order of which the king was grand
master.
St. Michael—not standing, but hovering on his poised wings, and
grasping his lance in both hands—sets one foot lightly on the shoulder
of the demon, who, prostrate, writhes up, as it were, and tries to lift
his head and turn it on his conqueror with one last gaze of malignant
rage and despair. The archangel looks down upon him with a brow calm
and serious; in his beautiful face is neither vengeance nor disdain—in
his attitude no effort; his form, a model of youthful grace and
majesty, is clothed in a brilliant panoply of gold and silver; an azure
scarf floats on his shoulders; his wide-spread wings are of purple,
blue, and gold; his light hair is raised, and floats outward on each
side of his head, as if from the swiftness of his downward motion. The
earth emits flames, and seems opening to swallow up the adversary. The
form of the demon is human, but vulgar in its proportions, and of a
swarthy red, as if fire-scathed; he has the horns and the serpent-tail;
but, from the attitude into which he is thrown, the monstrous form is
so fore-shortened that it does not disgust, and the majestic figure of
the archangel fills up nearly the whole space—fills the eye—fills the
soul—with its victorious beauty.
[Illustration: 37 The St. Michael painted by Raphael for Francis I.]
That Milton had seen this picture, and that when his sight was quenched
the ‘winged saint’ revisited him in his darkness, who can doubt?—
Over his lucid arms
A military vest of purple flowed
Livelier than Melibœan, or the grain
Of Sarra worn by kings and heroes old
In time of truce.
By his side,
As in a glittering zodiac, hung the sword,
Satan’s dire dread, and in his hand the spear.
A third St. Michael, designed by Raphael, exists only as an
engraving.[71] The angel here wears a helmet, and is classically
draped; he stands in an attitude of repose, his foot on the neck of the
demon; one hand rests on the pummel of his sword, the other holds the
lance.
It seems agreed that, as a work of art, there is only the St. Michael
of Guido (in the Capuccini at Rome) which can be compared with that of
Raphael; the moment chosen is the same; the treatment nearly the same;
the sentiment quite different.
Here the angel, standing, yet scarcely touching the ground, poised on
his outspread wings, sets his left foot on the head of his adversary;
in one hand he brandishes a sword, in the other he holds the end
of a chain, with which he is about to bind down the demon in the
bottomless pit. The attitude has been criticised, and justly; the
grace is somewhat mannered, verging on the theatrical; but Forsyth is
too severe when he talks of the ‘air of a dancing-master:’ one thing,
however, is certain, we do not think about attitude when we look at
Raphael’s St. Michael; in Guido’s, it is the first thing that strikes
us; but when we look farther, the head redeems all; it is singularly
beautiful, and in the blending of the masculine and feminine graces, in
the serene purity of the brow, and the flow of the golden hair, there
is something divine: a slight, very slight expression of scorn is in
the air of the head. The fiend is the worst part of the picture; it
is not a fiend, but a degraded prosaic human ruffian; we laugh with
incredulous contempt at the idea of an angel called down from heaven
to overcome such a wretch. In Raphael the fiend is human, but the head
has the god-like ugliness and malignity of a satyr; Guido’s fiend is
only stupid and base. It appears to me that there is just the same
difference—the same _kind_ of difference—between the angel of Raphael
and the angel of Guido, as between the description in Tasso and the
description in Milton; let any one compare them. In Tasso we are struck
by the picturesque elegance of the description as a piece of art, the
melody of the verse, the admirable choice of the expressions, as in
Guido by the finished but somewhat artificial and studied grace. In
Raphael and Milton we see only the vision of a ‘shape divine.’
One of the most beautiful figures of St. Michael I ever saw, occurs in
a coronation of the Virgin by Moretto, and is touched by his peculiar
sentiment of serious tenderness.[72]
In devotional pictures such figures of St. Michael are sometimes
grouped poetically with other personages, as in a most beautiful
picture by Innocenza da Imola,[73] where the archangel tramples on the
demon; St. Paul standing on one side, and St. Benedict on the other,
both of whom had striven with the fiend and had overcome him: the
Madonna and Child are seen in a glory above.
And again in a picture by Mabuse,[74] where St. Michael, as patron,
sets his foot on the black grinning fiend, and looks down on a kneeling
votary, while the votary, with his head turned away, appears to be
worshipping, not the protecting angel, but the Madonna, to whom St.
Michael presents him (38). Such votive pictures are not uncommon, and
have a peculiar grace and significance. Here the archangel bears the
victorious banner of the cross;—he has conquered. In some instances he
holds in his hand the head of the Dragon, and in _all_ instances it is,
or ought to be, the head of the Dragon which is transfixed:—‘Thou shalt
bruise his head.’
[Illustration: 38 St. Michael (Mabuse, 1510)]
Those representations in which St. Michael is not conqueror, but
combatant, in which the moment is one of transition, are less frequent;
it is then an _action_, not an _emblem_, and the composition is
historical rather than symbolical. It is the strife with Lucifer;
‘when Michael and his angels fought against the dragon, and the dragon
fought and his angels, and the great dragon was cast out.’ (Rev. xii.
7.) In churches and chapels dedicated to St. Michael, or to ‘the Holy
Angels,’ this appropriate subject often occurs; as in a famous fresco
by Spinello d’Arezzo, at Arezzo.[75] In the middle of the composition,
Michael, armed with sword and shield, is seen combating the dragon
with seven heads, as described in the Apocalypse. Above and around are
many angels also armed. At the top of the picture is seen an empty
throne, the throne which Lucifer had ‘set in the north;’ below is seen
Lucifer, falling with his angels over the parapet of heaven. (Isaiah
xiv. 13.) The painter tasked his skill to render the transformation
of the spirits of light into spirits of darkness as fearful and as
hideous as possible; and, being a man of a nervous temperament, the
continual dwelling on these horrors began at length to trouble his
brain. He fancied that Lucifer appeared to him in a dream, demanding by
what authority he had portrayed him under an aspect so revolting?—the
painter awoke in horror, was seized with delirious fever, and so died.
In his combat with the dragon, Michael is sometimes represented alone,
and sometimes as assisted by the two other archangels, Gabriel and
Raphael: as in the fresco by Signorelli, at Orvieto, where one of the
angels, whom we may suppose to be Raphael, looks down on the falling
demons with an air of melancholy, almost of pity.
In a picture by Marco Oggione,[76] Michael has precipitated the demon
into the gulf, and hovers above, while Raphael and Gabriel stand below
on each side, looking on; all are clothed in voluminous loose white
draperies, more like priests than warriors; but it is a fine picture.
In the large Rubens-room at Munich, there are two pictures of Michael
subduing the revolted angels. The large one, in which Michael is the
principal figure, is not agreeable. Rubens could not lift himself
sufficiently above the earth to conceive and embody the spiritual, and
heroic, and beautiful in one divine form; his St. Michael is vulgar.
The smaller composition, where the fallen, or rather falling, angels
fill the whole space, is a most wonderful effort of artistic invention.
At the summit of the picture stands St. Michael, the shield in one
hand, in the other the forked lightnings of divine wrath; and from
above the rebel host tumble headlong ‘in hideous ruin and combustion
hurled,’ and with such affright and amazement in every face, such a
downward movement in every limb, that we recoil in dizzy horror while
we look upon it. It is curious that Rubens should have introduced
female reprobate spirits: if he intended his picture as an allegory,
merely the conquest of the spiritual over the sensual, he is excusable;
but if he meant to figure the vision in the Apocalypse, it is a
deviation from the proper scriptural treatment, which is inexcusable.
This picture remains, however, as a whole, a perfect miracle of art:
the fault is, that we feel inclined to applaud as we do at some
astonishing _tour de force_; such at least was my own feeling, and
this is not the feeling appropriate to the subject. Though this famous
picture is entitled the Fall of the Angels, I have some doubts as to
whether this was the intention of the painter; whether he did not mean
to express the fall of sinners, flung by the Angel of judgment into the
abyss of wrath and perdition?
[Illustration: 39 St. Michael as Angel of Judgment and Lord of Souls
(Justus of Ghent)]
In those devotional pictures which exhibit St. Michael as Lord of
souls, he is winged and unarmed, and holds the balance. In each scale
sits a little naked figure, representing a human soul; one of these
is usually represented with hands joined as in thankfulness—he is the
_beato_, the elected; the other is in an attitude of horror—he is the
rejected, the reprobate; and often, but not necessarily, the idea
is completed by the introduction of a demon, who is grasping at the
descending scale, either with his talons, or with the long two-pronged
hook, such as is given to Pluto in the antique sculpture.
Sometimes St. Michael is thus represented singly; sometimes very
beautifully in Madonna pictures, as in a picture by Leonardo da Vinci
(A.D. 1498), where St. Michael, a graceful angelic figure, with light
flowing hair, kneels before the Madonna, and presents the balance to
the Infant, who seems to welcome the pious little soul who sits in the
uppermost scale.
[Illustration: 40 St. Michael (Signorelli, 1500. In the San Gregorio,
Rome)]
I have seen this idea varied. St. Michael stands majestic with the
balance poised in his hands: instead of a human figure in either
scale, there are weights; on one side is seen a company of five or six
little naked shivering souls, as if waiting for their doom; on the
other several demons, one of whom with his hook is pulling down the
ascending scale.[77] With or without the balance, St. Michael figures
as Lord of souls when introduced into pictures of the Assumption or
the Glorification of the Virgin. To understand the whole beauty and
propriety of such representations, we must remember, that according to
one of the legends of the death of the Virgin her spirit was consigned
to the care of St. Michael until it was permitted to reanimate the
spotless form, and with it ascend to heaven.
In one or two instances only, I have seen St. Michael without wings.
In general, an armed figure, unwinged and standing on a dragon, we may
presume to be a St. George; but where the balance is introduced, it
leaves no doubt of the personality—it is a St. Michael. Occasionally
the two characters—the protecting Angel of light and the Angel of
judgment—are united, and we see St. Michael, with the dragon under his
feet and the balance in his hand. This was a favourite and appropriate
subject on tombs and chapels dedicated to the dead; such is the
beautiful bas-relief on the tomb of Henry VII. in Westminster Abbey.
In some representations of the last judgment, St. Michael, instead
of the banner and cross, bears the scales; as in the very curious
bas-relief on the façade of the church of St. Trophime at Arles. St.
Michael here has a balance so large that it is almost as high as
himself; it is not a mere emblem, but a fact; a soul sits in each
scale, and a third is rising up; the angel holds out one hand to
assist him. In another part of the same bas-relief St. Michael is
seen carrying a human soul (represented as a little naked figure) and
bringing it to St. Peter and St. Paul. In a celebrated Last Judgment,
attributed by some authors to John Van Eyck, by others to Justus of
Ghent, St. Michael is grandly introduced.[78] High up, in the centre,
sits the Saviour, with the severe expression of the judge. Above him
hover four angels with the instruments of the Passion, and below him
three others sounding trumpets (_v._ p. 54),—I suppose the seven
pre-eminent angels: the Virgin and St. John the Baptist on each side,
and then the Apostles ranged in the usual manner. ‘In the lower half of
the picture stands St. Michael, clad in golden armour, so bright as to
reflect in the most complete manner all the surrounding objects. His
figure is slender and elegant, but colossal as compared to the rest. He
seems to be bending earnestly forward, a splendid purple mantle falls
from his shoulders to the ground, and his large wings are composed of
glittering peacock’s feathers. He holds the balance; the scale with the
good rests on earth, but that with the souls which are found wanting
mounts into air. A demon stands ready to receive them, and towards
this scale St. Michael points with the end of a black staff which he
holds in his right hand.’ This picture, which is a chef-d’œuvre of the
early German school, is now in the church of St. Mary at Dantzig.
* * * * *
The historical subjects in which St. Michael is introduced exhibit
him as prince of the Hebrew nation, and belong properly to the Old
Testament.[79] ‘After the confusion of tongues, and the scattering of
the people, which occurred on the building of the Tower of Babel, every
separate nation had an angel to direct it. To Michael was given in
charge the people of the Lord. The Hebrews being carried away captive
into the land of Assyria, Daniel prayed that they might be permitted
to return when the seventy years of captivity were over: but the Angel
of Persia opposed himself on this occasion to the angels Michael and
Gabriel. He wished to retain the Jews in captivity, because he was
glad to have, within the bounds of his jurisdiction, a people who
served the true God, and because he hoped that in time the captive Jews
would convert to the truth the Assyrians and Persians committed to his
care.’ This curious passage from one of the early Christian fathers,
representing the good angels as opposed to each other, and one of them
as disputing the commands of God, is an instance of the confused ideas
on the subject of angels which prevailed in the ancient Church, and
which prevail, I imagine, in the minds of many even at this day.
In the story of Hagar in the wilderness, it is Michael who descends to
her aid. In the sacrifice of Isaac, it is Michael who stays the arm
of Abraham. It is Michael who brings the plagues on Egypt, and he it
is who leads the Israelites through the wilderness. It was the belief
of the Jews, and of some of the early Christian fathers, that through
his angel (not in person) God spoke to Moses from the burning bush,
and delivered to him the law on Mount Sinai; and that the angel so
delegated was Michael.
It is Michael who combats with Lucifer for the body of Moses. (Jude
v. 9.) According to one interpretation of this curious passage of
Scripture, the demon wished to enter and to possess the form of Moses,
in order to deceive the Jews by personating their leader; but others
say, that Michael contended for the body, that he might bury it in an
unknown place, lest the Jews should fall into the sin of paying divine
honours to their legislator. This is a fine picturesque subject; the
rocky desert, the body of Moses dead on the earth, the contest of the
good and evil angel confronting each other,—these are grand materials!
It must have been rarely treated, for I remember but one instance—the
fresco by L. Signorelli, in the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican.
It is Michael who intercepts Balaam[80] when on his way to curse the
people of Israel, and puts blessings into his mouth instead of curses:
a subject often treated, but as a fact rather than a vision.
It is Michael who stands before Joshua in the plain by Jericho:—‘And
Joshua said unto him, Art thou for us, or for our adversaries? And he
said, Nay; but as captain of the host of the Lord am I now come. And
Joshua fell on his face to the earth, and did worship, and said unto
him, What saith my Lord unto his servant? And the captain of the Lord’s
host said unto Joshua, Loose thy shoe from off thy foot; for the place
whereon thou standest is holy.’ (Joshua v. 13-15.) This subject is very
uncommon. In the Greek MS. already alluded to, I met with a magnificent
example—magnificent in point of sentiment, though half ruined and
effaced; the God-like bearing of the armed angel, looking down on the
prostrate Joshua, is here as fine as possible.
It is Michael who appears to Gideon.[81] It is Michael who chastises
David.[82] It is Michael who exterminates the army of Sennacherib; a
subject magnificently painted by Rubens. (Some suppose that on this
occasion God made use of the ministry of an evil angel.[83])
It is Michael who descends to deliver the Three Children from the
burning fiery furnace. The Three Children in the furnace is a subject
which appears very early in the catacombs and on the sarcophagi
as a symbol of the Redemption;—so early, that it is described by
Tertullian;[84] but in almost all the examples given there are
three figures only: where there is a fourth, it is, of course, the
protecting angel, but he is without wings.[85]
Michael seizes the prophet Habakkuk by the hair of the head, and
carries him to Babylon, to the den of lions, that he may feed
Daniel.[86] This apocryphal subject occurs on several sarcophagi.[87] I
have seen it also in illuminated MSS., but cannot at this moment refer
to it. It occurs in a series of late Flemish prints after Hemskirk,—of
which there are good impressions in the British Museum.
* * * * *
The Archangel Michael is not named in the Gospels; but in the legends
of the Madonna, as we shall see hereafter, he plays a very important
part, being deputed by Christ to announce to his mother her approaching
end, and to receive her soul. For the present I will only remark,
that when, in accordance with this very ancient legend, an angel is
represented kneeling before the Madonna, and holding in his hand a palm
surmounted by stars, or a lighted taper, this angel is not Gabriel,
announcing the conception of Christ, as is usually supposed, but
Michael, as the angel of death.[88]
The legend of Monte Galgano I saw in a large fresco, in the Santa Croce
at Florence, by a painter of the Giotto school; but in so bad a state,
that I could only make out a bull on the top of a mountain, and a man
shooting with a bow and arrow. On the opposite wall is the combat of
Michael with the dragon—very spirited, and in much better preservation.
To distinguish the apparition of St. Michael on Monte Galgano from
the apparition on Mont St. Michel, in both of which a bull and a
bishop are principal figures, it is necessary to observe, that, in the
last-named subject, the sea is always introduced at the base of the
picture, and that the former is most common in Italian, and the latter
in French, works of art. In the French stained glass of the thirteenth
and fourteenth centuries, St. Michael is a very popular subject, either
with the dragon, or the scales, or both.
Lately, in removing the whitewash from the east wall of the nave of
Preston Church, near Brighton, was discovered the outline of a group of
figures representing St. Michael, fully draped, and with large wings,
bearing the balance; in each scale a human soul. The scale containing
the _beato_ is assisted by a figure fully draped, but so ruined that
it is not possible to say whether it represents the Virgin, or the
guardian saint of the person who caused the fresco to be painted. I
am told that in the old churches of Cornwall, and of the towns on the
south coast, which had frequent intercourse with France, effigies of
St. Michael occur frequently, both in painting and sculpture. On the
old English coin, thence called an _angel_, we have the figure of St.
Michael, who was one of the patron saints of our Norman kings.
I must now trust to the reader to contemplate the figures of St.
Michael, so frequent and so varied in Art, with reference to these
suggestions; and leaving for the present this radiant Spirit, this
bright similitude of a primal and universal faith, we turn to his
angelic companions.
[Illustration: 41 Egyptian hieroglyphic of the Genius of Good
overcoming Evil (_v._ p. 108)]