Lonchamps.--The "Three Hours' Agony" at St. Roch.--Sermons on
the Gospel of Good-Friday.--Prospects of the
Catholics.--O'Connell.
I dare say you may know, my friend, though I did not, that the
Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday of Passion-week are yearly set apart
by the Parisians for a splendid promenade in carriages, on horseback,
and on foot, to a part of the Bois de Boulogne called Lonchamps. What
the origin could be of so gay and brilliant an assemblage of people
and equipages, evidently coming together to be stared at and to stare,
on days so generally devoted to religious exercises, rather puzzled
me; but I have obtained a most satisfactory explanation, which, in the
hope of your ignorance, I will communicate. The custom itself, it
seems, is a sort of religious exercise; or, at any rate, it was so at
the time of its institution.
When the _beau monde_ of Paris first adopted the practice of repairing
to Lonchamps during these days of penitence and prayer, a convent
stood there, whose nuns were celebrated for performing the solemn
services appointed for the season with peculiar piety and effect. They
sustained this reputation for many years; and for many years all who
could find admittance within their church thronged to hear their sweet
voices.
This convent was destroyed at _the_ revolution (_par excellence_), but
the horses and carriages of Paris still continue to move for evermore
in the same direction when the last three days of Lent arrive.
The cavalcade assembled on this occasion forms an extremely pretty
spectacle, rivalling a spring Sunday in Hyde Park as to the number and
elegance of the equipages, and greatly exceeding it in the beauty and
extent of the magnificent road on which they show themselves. Though
the attending this congregation of wealth, rank, and fashion is still
called "going to Lonchamps," the evolutions of the company, whether in
carriages, on horseback, or on foot, are at present almost wholly
confined to the noble avenue which leads from the entrance to the
Champs Elysées up to the Barrière de l'Etoile.
From about three till six, the whole of this ample space is crowded;
and I really had no idea that so many handsome, well-appointed
equipages could be found collected together anywhere out of London.
The royal family had several handsome carriages on the ground: that of
the Duke of Orleans was particularly remarkable for the beauty of the
horses, and the general elegance of the "turn-out."
The ministers of state, and all the foreign legations, did honour to
the occasion; most of them having very complete equipages, chasseurs
of various plumage, and many with a set of four beautiful horses
really well harnessed. Many private individuals, also, had carriages
which were handsome enough, together with their elegant lading,
greatly to increase the general brilliancy of the scene.
The only individual, however, except the Duke of Orleans, who had two
carriages on the ground, two feathered chasseurs, and twice two pair
of richly-harnessed steeds, was a certain Mr. T----, an American
merchant, whose vast wealth, and still more vast expenditure, is
creating considerable consternation among his sober-minded countrymen
in Paris. We were told that the exuberance of this gentleman's
transatlantic taste was such, and such the vivacity of his inventive
fancy, that during the three days of the Lonchamps promenade he
appeared on the ground each day with different liveries; having, as it
should seem, no particular family reasons for preferring any one set
of colours to another.
The ground was sprinkled, and certainly greatly adorned, by many very
elegant-looking Englishmen on horseback; the pretty caprioles, sleek
skins, and well-managed capers of that prettiest of creatures, a
high-bred English saddle-horse, being as usual among the most
attractive parts of the show. Nor was there any deficiency of
Frenchmen, with very handsome _montures_, to complete the spectacle;
while the ample space under the trees on either side was crowded with
thousands of smart pedestrians; the whole scene being one vast moving
mass of pomp and pleasure.
Nevertheless, the weather on the first of the three days was very far
from favourable: the wind was so bitterly cold that I countermanded
the carriage I had ordered, and instead of going to Lonchamps, we
actually sat shivering over the fire at home; indeed, before three
o'clock, the ground was perfectly covered with snow. The next day
promised something better, and we ventured to emerge: but the
spectacle was really vexatious; many of the carriages being open, and
the shivering ladies attired in all the light and floating drapery of
spring costume. For it is at Lonchamps that all the fashions of the
coming season are exhibited; and no one can tell, however fashion-wise
they be, what bonnet, scarf or shawl, or even what prevailing colour,
is to be worn in Paris throughout the year, till this decisive promenade
be over. Accordingly the milliners had done their duty, and, in fact,
had far outstripped the spring. But it was sad to see the beautiful
bunches of lilac, and the graceful, flexible laburnums--each a wonder
of art--twisted and tortured, bending and breaking, before the wind.
It really seemed as if the lazy Spring, vexed at the pretty mimicry of
blossoms she had herself failed to bring, sent this inclement blast on
purpose to blight them. Everything went wrong. The tender tinted
ribbons were soon dabbled in a driving sleet; while feathers, instead
of wantoning, as it was intended they should do, on the breeze, had to
fight a furious battle with the gale.
It was not therefore till the following day--the last of the three
appointed--that Lonchamps really showed the brilliant assemblage of
carriages, horsemen, and pedestrians that I have described to you.
Upon this last day, however, though it was still cold for the
season--(England would have been ashamed of such a 17th of April)--the
sun did come forth, and smiled in such a sort as greatly to comfort
the pious pilgrims.
We remained, like all the rest of Paris, driving up and down in the
midst of the pretty crowd till six, when they gradually began to draw
off, and all the world went home to dinner.
The early part of this day, which was Good-Friday, had been very
differently passed. The same beautiful and solemn music which formerly
drew all Paris to the Convent in the Bois de Boulogne is now performed
in several of the churches. We were recommended to hear the choir of
St. Roch; and it was certainly the most impressive service at which I
was ever present.
There is much wisdom in thus giving to music an important part in the
public ceremonies of religion. Nothing commands and enchains the
attention with equal power: the ear may be deaf to eloquence, and the
thoughts may often grovel earthward, despite all the efforts of the
preacher to lead them up to heaven; but few will find it possible to
escape from the effect of music; and when it is of such a character as
that performed in the Roman Catholic church on Good-Friday, it can
hardly be that the most volatile and indifferent listener should
depart unmoved.
This service was advertised as "The Three Hours' Agony." The crowd
assembled to listen to it was immense. It is impossible to speak too
highly of the composition of the music; it is conceived in the very
highest tone of sublimity; and the deeply effective manner of its
performance recalled to me an anecdote I have heard of some young
organist, who, having accompanied an anthem in a manner which appeared
greatly superior to that of the usual performer, was asked if he had
not made some alteration in the composition. "No," he replied, "I have
not; but I always read the words when I play."
So, I should think, did those who performed the services at St. Roch
on Good-Friday; and nothing can be imagined more touching and
effective than the manner in which the whole of these striking
ceremonies were performed and arranged there.
The awful gospel of the day furnished a theme for the impassioned
eloquence of several successive preachers; one or two of whom were
wonderfully powerful in their manner of recounting the dreadful
narrative. They were all quite young men; but they went through the
whole of the appalling history with such deep solemnity, such strength
of imagery and vehemence of eloquence, as to produce prodigious
effect.
At intervals, while the exhausted preachers reposed, the organ, with
many stringed instruments, and a choir of exquisite voices, performed
the same gospel, in a manner that made one's whole soul thrill and
quiver within one. The suffering--the submission--the plaintive yet
sublime "It is finished!" and the convulsive burst of indignant nature
that followed, showing itself in thunder, hail, and earthquake, were
all brought before the mind with most miraculous power. I have been
told since, that the services at Notre Dame on that day were finer
still; but I really find some difficulty in believing that this is
possible.
During these last and most solemn days of Lent, I have been
endeavouring by every means in my power to discover how much fasting,
of any kind, was going on. If they fast at all, it is certainly
performed in most strict obedience to the very letter of the gospel:
for, assuredly, they "appear not unto men to fast." Everything goes on
as gaily as if it were the season of the carnival. The _restaurans_
reek with the savoury vapour of a hundred dishes; the theatres are
opened, and as full as the churches; invitations cease not; and I can
in no direction perceive the slightest symptom of being among a Roman
Catholic population during a season of penitence.
And yet, contradictory as the statement must appear, I am deeply
convinced that the clergy of the church of Rome feel more hope of
recovered power fluttering at their hearts now, than they have done at
any time during the last half-century. Nor can I think they are far
wrong in this. The share which the Roman Catholic priests of this our
day are said to have had in the Belgian revolution, and the part, more
remarkable still, which the same race are now performing in the
opening scenes of the fearful struggle which threatens England, has
given a new impulse to the ambition of Rome and of her children. One
may read it in the portly bearing of her youthful priests,--one may
read it in the deep-set meditative eye of those who are older. It is
legible in their brand-new vestments of gold and silver tissue; it is
legible in the costly decorations of their renovated altars; and deep,
deep, deep is the policy which teaches them to recover with a gentle
hand that which they have lost by a grasping one. How well can I
fancy that, in their secret synods, the favourite text is, "No man
putteth a piece of new cloth unto an old garment; for that which is
put in to fill it up, taketh from the garment, and the rent is made
worse." Were they a whit less cautious, they must fail at once; but
they tickle their converts before they think of convincing them. It is
for this that the pulpits are given to young and eloquent men, who win
the eye and ear of their congregations long before they find out to
what point they wish to lead them. But while the young men preach, the
old men are not idle: there are rumours of new convents, new
monasteries, new orders, new miracles, and of new converts, in all
directions. This wily, worldly, tranquil-seeming, but most ambitious
sect, having in many quarters joined themselves to the cause of
democracy, sit quietly by, looking for the result of their work, and
watching, like a tiger that seems to dose, for the moment when they
may avenge themselves for the long fast from power, during which they
have been gnawing their heart-strings.
But they now hail the morning of another day. I would that all English
ears could hear, as mine have done, the prattle that prophesies the
downfall of our national church as a thing certain as rain after long
drought! I would that English ears could hear, as mine have done, the
name of O'Connell uttered as that of a new apostle, and his bold
bearding of those who yet raise their voices in defence of the faith
their fathers gave them, triumphantly quoted in proof of the growing
influence both of himself and his popish creed,--which are in truth
one and inseparable! But forgive me!--all this has little to do with
my subject, and it is moreover a theme I had much better not meddle
with. I cannot touch it lightly, for my heart is heavy when I turn to
it; I cannot treat it powerfully, for, alas! I have no strength but to
lament.
"Hé! que puis-je au milieu de ce peuple abattu?
Benjamin est sans force, et Juda sans vertu."