THE BLACK LADY OF ALTENÖTTING.

With the exception of the shrine of the Three Kings at Cologne, there

exists throughout Germany no spot of greater sanctity, no altar of

richer endowments, than the Chapel of the Black Lady, on the frontier of

Bavaria. The hearts of its sovereign electors have been deposited, from

century to century, within the consecrated cells; nor is there an

historic event, involving the interests of their own, or the adjacent

kingdoms, which is not supposed to have been influenced by her potent

interposition. A sufficient history, in fact, of the destinies of the

whole empire, might be recorded in a mere catalogue of the national

offerings to the shrine of Altenötting.

In rambling through the eastern provinces of Bavaria, some few springs

ago, I chanced to arrive one glowing afternoon at the post-house of an

inconsiderable town; which, from the grass-grown tranquillity of its

streets, and from a peculiar air of self-oblivion, appeared to be

basking fast asleep in the sunshine. There was little to admire in the

common-place character of its site, or the narrow meanness of its

distribution; yet there was something peculiar in its look of dreamy

non-identity; and had it not been for the smiling faces of the

fair-haired Bavarian girls, who were to be seen glancing here and there,

with their embroidered purple bodices and coifs, and silver-chained

stomachers, I could believe myself to have reached some enchanted realm

of forgetfulness.

As I entered the Platz, or market-square, of the little town, chiefly

with a view to the nearer inspection of the cunning workmanship of the

aforesaid carcanets of silver, a light sprinkling of April rain began to

moisten the pavement--one of those unheard, unseen, revivifying showers,

which weep the earth into freshness, and the buds into maturity. I was

anxious, however, to withdraw my mere human nature from participation in

these herbaceous advantages; and looking about for some shelter which

might preserve me from the mischiefs of the shower, without depriving me

of its refreshing fragrance, I espied in the centre of the Platz--a

square of no mighty area--a low, rotunda-like building, with slated

roof, overhanging and resting upon wooden pillars, so as to form a sort

of covered walk.

I settled with myself that this was the market-house of the town, and

hastened to besiege so desirable a city of refuge. But during my rapid

approach, I observed that the external walls of the nameless edifice

beneath the arcade were covered, and without a single interstitial

interval, by small pictures in oil-colours, equal in size, and equal in

demerit, and each and all representing some calamitous crisis of human

existence--a fire, a ship-wreck, a boat-wreck, a battle, a leprosy! It

occurred to me at the same moment, that this gallery of mortal

casualties and afflictions must be a collection of votive offerings, and

that the seeming market-house was, probably, a shrine of especial

sanctity. And so it was!--the shrine of "The Black Lady of Altenötting."

Instigated by somewhat more than a traveller's vague curiosity, I

entered the chapel; the brilliancy of which, eternally illuminated by

the reflection of a profusion of silver lamps upon the thousand precious

objects which decorate the walls, forms a startling contrast with the

dim shadows of the external arcade. In most cases, the entrance to a

religious edifice impresses the mind with a consciousness of vastness,

and a sensation of awe:--

"------the tombs

And monumental caves of death look cold,

And strike an aching dullness to the breast."

But the chapel of the Black Virgin is diminutive as a boudoir, and yet

retains the usual character of listening and awful stillness, the

ordinary impression of local sanctity. A few peasants were seen kneeling

in utter immobility and self-abstraction beneath a lamp, which seemed to

issue in a crimson flame from a colossal two-fold silver heart,

suspended from the ceiling--their untutored minds were elevated into the

belief of a heavenly commune.

In a glass case above the altar, is deposited this far-famed effigy of

the Holy Galilean virgin--a hideous female negro, carved in wood, and

holding an infant Jesus in her arms of the same hue and material; and

exhibited in its extremity of ugliness by the reflected glare of the

silver and diamonds, and gems of every description, by which she is

surrounded. Chests, mimic altars, models of ships, crowns and sceptres,

chalices and crosses of gold and silver and enamel, and enriched with

Turkish blue and emerald green,

and every jewel of every land, lie amassed in gorgeous profusion in the

adjoining cases, and seemed to realize the fabled treasures of the

preadamite Sultans. Boasting themselves as gifts of gratitude or

invocation from emperors and popes, kings, princes, palsgraves, and all

the other minor thrones and dominions of the earth, these splendid

offerings form the most plausible illustration of the miraculous power

attributed to the image of the Black Lady, which has been deposited in

its actual abode since the year of Grace 696. In the course of the

Thirty Years' War, this important relic and its treasury were twice

removed into the city of Salzburg, for security from the Swedish

invaders; and twice brought back in solemn triumph to their ancient

sanctuary.

But a mightier charm than that of gems or metals, the most precious or

the most beautiful, connects itself with the chapel of Altenötting--its

association with historical names of all ages, from Charlemagne and Otto

of Wittelsbach, whose monuments we find inscribed in Runic characters,

to Pius the Sixth, whose dedication, "O clemens, O pia Virgo

Oettingana!" is graven in a "fine Roman hand." It contains sepulchral

vaults of the families of Wallenstein, Tilly, Montecuculi, besides those

of divers electors, archbishops, and archdukes, whose titles speak far

less stirringly to the heart; altogether forming an illustration of the

past, which brings the dark ages in living majesty before our eyes.

Alternately dazzled and disgusted by this fruitless waste of splendour,

this still more fruitless waste of national credulity, I was pondering

over the domestic virtues of a certain "Franziska Barbara, Countess of

Tilly," as recorded over her grave, when the chants of the priests, who

had been engaged in the celebration of mass before the altar, suddenly

ceased; and, as the last fumes of the incense circled upwards to the

blackened roof, there arose another and a solitary voice, evidently of

lay intonation, and deepened by that persuasive earnestness of devotion

which, like an electric chain, connects in holy feeling all sects of the

Christian church. It spoke in the fulness of gratitude, and in the

humbleness of prayer; and although the dialect was tinged with village

barbarism, and its thankfulness addressed to the Black Virgin, I heard

in its simple solemnity only the beauty of holiness; and, overlooking

the visible shrine, beheld in its ultimate object the tribunal of divine

mercy!

The devout speaker was one of a peasant family who had entered the

chapel unobserved, during my contemplation of its glittering

decorations. He was apparently a Bavarian farmer, somewhat advanced in

years, and wearing, in addition to his richly-substantial holiday

attire, a deep green shade over his eyes, which accounted for the

character of his thanksgivings to the miraculous image. "I thank thee, O

most benign and saintly Maria!" had been the tenour of his prayer, "for

the scattered and glorious gifts of Heaven, which had become as vain

things to my soul, till thy grace renewed them in its knowledge. I thank

thee for the summer skies and the green pastures--for the footsteps

which no longer crave a helping hand--for the restored faces of my

beloved ones--and, above all, O holiest Virgin! I glorify thy name in

gratitude for the precious means by which the blessing of sight hath

been again vouchsafed me!"

This last mode of expression excited my curiosity, and when the little

group of votaries had concluded their ceremonies, had affixed their

consecrated tapers at the shrine, and deposited their oblations with its

officiating priests, I followed their joyful footsteps out of the

chapel, and was again struck by the delicious transition from the heated

and incense-laden atmosphere of its interior, to the pure, balmy April

air without, gushing with the sweetness of the passing shower.

The ceremonies of the day were still far from their conclusion. The

historical painter of Altenötting was in attendance in the arcade,

bearing the votive picture which was to perpetuate the latest miracle of

the Black Lady; and as far as I could observe or ascertain of the

sacerdotal hangman of the consecrated gallery, the oldest and most

weather-stained of the pictures was made to yield precedence to the new

comer. Having profited by a stranger's privilege, and the English garb,

which is held as sacred as a herald's tabard in many a foreign land, to

unite myself to the little group, and address some casual inquiries to

its frank and overjoyous members--old Philipp Stroer himself, the hero

of the day, deigned to take the picture from the hands of the sacristan,

and to ciceronize for my especial edification. I trust his restored

vision was not yet sufficiently acute to admit of his noting the smile

which, in spite of my better will, stole over my face, as I contemplated

the phenomenon of bad taste, and worse execution, which he thrust upon

my observation. It represented his worthy but very unpicturesque self in

the hands of an oculist, and the endurance of a cataract. The eyes of

his surrounding family were fixed with eager interest upon the event of

the operation. "And what," said I, anxious to make some sympathy in this

domestic crisis--"and what is the name of the surgeon whose efforts have

been blessed by the protection of the Black Lady?"

"The surgeon!"

"Yes; the oculist who is represented in the picture."

"That, sir, is no oculist, no surgeon; it is my Karl, sir, my beloved

son!" I shall never forget the voice, struggling with emotion, in which

the old man pronounced the words "_mein sohn_!"

The story of that son was one of deep, though humble interest. Trained

in the agricultural habits of his forefathers, and destined to succeed

to the laborious honours of the Stroerische farm, young Karl, to whom

his gray-haired father was an object of the fondest and most reverential

affection, beheld with horror the gradual advances of the disease which

was about to render the remaining years of life a burden to the

sightless man. With the fractiousness of advancing age and growing

infirmity, old Philipp obstinately refused to seek the assistance of any

learned leech of the country round. Brannau and Burchhausen boasted each

of a chirurgic wonder, but Stroer misdoubted or defied their skill. "His

frail body," he said, "was in the hands of a heavenly Providence, to

which, as might best beseem, he bequeathed its guidance." Meanwhile, the

perilous uncertainty of his footing, and the growing isolation of his

existence, became more and more perceptible, when one day, just as an

acknowledgement of "total eclipse" had fallen from his quivering lips,

the prop and stay of his household, his beloved son Karl was missing

from the farm! The first moment of uncertainty touching his destinies

was a trying one, but it was also brief. A few days brought a letter

from Munich, in which the absconded son implored his father's

forgiveness, forbearance, and patience, during some ensuing months.

Time, he wrote, might alone explain the motives of duty which had caused

his apparent error.

Patience is a difficult virtue to the sick and the unhappy. The blind

man, pining for his absent Karl, had need of all his trust in the

excellence of his favourite child: at times, misdoubtings naturally

arose; for the few months lengthened into seven, eight--eleven--a whole

year, and the wanderer came not again.

At length, one autumn evening, a general shriek from the little

household apprized Philipp Stroer of some unwonted occurrence, and

straightway a voice demanded his blessing, and warm tears were wept upon

his hand, and he knew that his son was at his feet! The story of Karl's

absence was briefly and feelingly explained. Moved by his father's

obstinate aversion to place himself in the hands of a strange

practitioner, he had resolved to qualify himself for so precious a

charge; and having interested an eminent surgeon of Munich by the detail

of his affecting anxieties sufficiently to insure his instructions in

the single branch of surgery requisite for his purpose, Karl had passed

his days in infirmaries and hospitals, denying himself the common

sustenance of nature, in order to maintain the respectability of garb

necessary for his admittance to the lectures of his scientific

preceptor. At length, his ardent endeavours were rewarded by a

certificate of expertness; and a patent of nobility would have afforded

him a far less gratifying excitement. Nor did Heaven withhold its

blessing from a cause thus hallowed by filial devotion; the operation,

which quickly followed his arrival at the farm, was attended with

perfect success. For some days, indeed, the old man still maintained his

resistance; but when he was assured that Karl had preceded his departure

for Munich by a pilgrimage to Altenötting, and that the especial favour

of the Black Lady had sanctified his undertaking, he became more

passive--the result was a perfect restoration to sight.

"And where," I exclaimed, "is this excellent, this worthy Karl of yours

at present?"

"By your side," replied a chorus of voices; and following their

indication, I turned towards a young man of sturdy appearance, who

acknowledged my salute with prompt and open frankness. He wore the

common peasant costume of the country, and laughed away my honest

praises as a mere exaggeration. "I had nothing to fear from my absence,"

said he, looking towards a very beautiful girl who stood beside him,

"for I was secure of the good faith of my Hannchen, and I knew that the

Black Lady would bless my enterprise!"

I could not presume to despise this strange union of intelligence and

bigotry; nay, so intimately is the remembrance of the family of Stroer

connected in my mind with that of the miraculous idol, that I must

acknowledge some sort of lingering superstitious reverence towards the

shrine of the Black Virgin of Altenötting.--_New Monthly Magazine._

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