NOYON stands about a mile from the river, in a little plain surrounded by
wooded hills, and entirely covers an eminence with its tile roofs,
surmounted by a long, straight-backed cathedral with two stiff towers.
As we got into the town, the tile roofs seemed to tumble uphill one upon
another, in the oddest disorder; but for all their scrambling, they did
not attain above the knees of the cathedral, which stood, upright and
solemn, over all. As the streets drew near to this presiding genius,
through the market-place under the Hôtel de Ville, they grew emptier and
more composed. Blank walls and shuttered windows were turned to the
great edifice, and grass grew on the white causeway. ‘Put off thy shoes
from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground.’
The Hôtel du Nord, nevertheless, lights its secular tapers within a
stone-cast of the church; and we had the superb east-end before our eyes
all morning from the window of our bedroom. I have seldom looked on the
east-end of a church with more complete sympathy. As it flanges out in
three wide terraces and settles down broadly on the earth, it looks like
the poop of some great old battle-ship. Hollow-backed buttresses carry
vases, which figure for the stern lanterns. There is a roll in the
ground, and the towers just appear above the pitch of the roof, as though
the good ship were bowing lazily over an Atlantic swell. At any moment
it might be a hundred feet away from you, climbing the next billow. At
any moment a window might open, and some old admiral thrust forth a
cocked hat, and proceed to take an observation. The old admirals sail
the sea no longer; the old ships of battle are all broken up, and live
only in pictures; but this, that was a church before ever they were
thought upon, is still a church, and makes as brave an appearance by the
Oise. The cathedral and the river are probably the two oldest things for
miles around; and certainly they have both a grand old age.
The Sacristan took us to the top of one of the towers, and showed us the
five bells hanging in their loft. From above, the town was a tesselated
pavement of roofs and gardens; the old line of rampart was plainly
traceable; and the Sacristan pointed out to us, far across the plain, in
a bit of gleaming sky between two clouds, the towers of Château Coucy.
I find I never weary of great churches. It is my favourite kind of
mountain scenery. Mankind was never so happily inspired as when it made
a cathedral: a thing as single and specious as a statue to the first
glance, and yet, on examination, as lively and interesting as a forest in
detail. The height of spires cannot be taken by trigonometry; they
measure absurdly short, but how tall they are to the admiring eye! And
where we have so many elegant proportions, growing one out of the other,
and all together into one, it seems as if proportion transcended itself,
and became something different and more imposing. I could never fathom
how a man dares to lift up his voice to preach in a cathedral. What is
he to say that will not be an anti-climax? For though I have heard a
considerable variety of sermons, I never yet heard one that was so
expressive as a cathedral. ’Tis the best preacher itself, and preaches
day and night; not only telling you of man’s art and aspirations in the
past, but convicting your own soul of ardent sympathies; or rather, like
all good preachers, it sets you preaching to yourself;—and every man is
his own doctor of divinity in the last resort.
As I sat outside of the hotel in the course of the afternoon, the sweet
groaning thunder of the organ floated out of the church like a summons.
I was not averse, liking the theatre so well, to sit out an act or two of
the play, but I could never rightly make out the nature of the service I
beheld. Four or five priests and as many choristers were singing
_Miserere_ before the high altar when I went in. There was no
congregation but a few old women on chairs and old men kneeling on the
pavement. After a while a long train of young girls, walking two and
two, each with a lighted taper in her hand, and all dressed in black with
a white veil, came from behind the altar, and began to descend the nave;
the four first carrying a Virgin and child upon a table. The priests and
choristers arose from their knees and followed after, singing ‘Ave Mary’
as they went. In this order they made the circuit of the cathedral,
passing twice before me where I leaned against a pillar. The priest who
seemed of most consequence was a strange, down-looking old man. He kept
mumbling prayers with his lips; but as he looked upon me darkling, it did
not seem as if prayer were uppermost in his heart. Two others, who bore
the burthen of the chaunt, were stout, brutal, military-looking men of
forty, with bold, over-fed eyes; they sang with some lustiness, and
trolled forth ‘Ave Mary’ like a garrison catch. The little girls were
timid and grave. As they footed slowly up the aisle, each one took a
moment’s glance at the Englishman; and the big nun who played marshal
fairly stared him out of countenance. As for the choristers, from first
to last they misbehaved as only boys can misbehave; and cruelly marred
the performance with their antics.
I understood a great deal of the spirit of what went on. Indeed it would
be difficult not to understand the _Miserere_, which I take to be the
composition of an atheist. If it ever be a good thing to take such
despondency to heart, the _Miserere_ is the right music, and a cathedral
a fit scene. So far I am at one with the Catholics:—an odd name for
them, after all? But why, in God’s name, these holiday choristers? why
these priests who steal wandering looks about the congregation while they
feign to be at prayer? why this fat nun, who rudely arranges her
procession and shakes delinquent virgins by the elbow? why this spitting,
and snuffing, and forgetting of keys, and the thousand and one little
misadventures that disturb a frame of mind laboriously edified with
chaunts and organings? In any play-house reverend fathers may see what
can be done with a little art, and how, to move high sentiments, it is
necessary to drill the supernumeraries and have every stool in its proper
place.
One other circumstance distressed me. I could bear a _Miserere_ myself,
having had a good deal of open-air exercise of late; but I wished the old
people somewhere else. It was neither the right sort of music nor the
right sort of divinity for men and women who have come through most
accidents by this time, and probably have an opinion of their own upon
the tragic element in life. A person up in years can generally do his
own _Miserere_ for himself; although I notice that such an one often
prefers _Jubilate Deo_ for his ordinary singing. On the whole, the most
religious exercise for the aged is probably to recall their own
experience; so many friends dead, so many hopes disappointed, so many
slips and stumbles, and withal so many bright days and smiling
providences; there is surely the matter of a very eloquent sermon in all
this.
On the whole, I was greatly solemnised. In the little pictorial map of
our whole Inland Voyage, which my fancy still preserves, and sometimes
unrolls for the amusement of odd moments, Noyon cathedral figures on a
most preposterous scale, and must be nearly as large as a department. I
can still see the faces of the priests as if they were at my elbow, and
hear _Ave Maria_, _ora pro nobis_, sounding through the church. All
Noyon is blotted out for me by these superior memories; and I do not care
to say more about the place. It was but a stack of brown roofs at the
best, where I believe people live very reputably in a quiet way; but the
shadow of the church falls upon it when the sun is low, and the five
bells are heard in all quarters, telling that the organ has begun. If
ever I join the Church of Rome, I shall stipulate to be Bishop of Noyon
on the Oise.