GOING ON A PILGRIMAGE.
GENEVA, July 12th.
We have been on a pilgrimage. In coming to France, I had a great
desire to visit one of those shrines which have become of late objects
of such enthusiastic devotion, and attracted pilgrims from all parts
of Europe, and even from America. In a former chapter I spoke of the
Resurrection of France, referring to its material prosperity as
restored since the war. There has been also a revival of religious
fervor--call it superstition or fanaticism--which is quite remarkable.
Those who have kept watch of events in the religious as well as in the
political world, have observed a sudden access of zeal throughout
Catholic Christendom. Whatever the cause, whether the "persecution,"
real or imaginary, of the Holy Father, or the heavy blows which the
Church has received from the iron hand of Germany in its wars with
Austria and France--the fact is evident that there has been a great
increase of activity among the more devout Catholics--which shows
itself in a spirit of propagandism, in "missions," which are a kind of
revivals, and in pilgrimages to places which are regarded as having a
peculiar sanctity.
These pilgrimages are so utterly foreign to our American ideas, they
appear so childish and ridiculous, that it seems impossible to speak
of them with gravity. And yet there has been at least one of these
pious expeditions from the United States (of which there was a long
account in the New York papers), in which the pilgrims walked in
procession down Broadway, and embarked with the blessing of our new
American Cardinal. From England they have been quite frequent. Large
numbers, among whom we recognize the names of several well known
Catholic noblemen, assemble in London, and receive the blessing of
Cardinal Manning, and then leave to make devout pilgrimages to the
"holy places" (which are no longer only in Palestine, but for greater
convenience have been brought nearer, and are now to be found in
France), generally ending with a pilgrimage to Rome, to cast
themselves at the feet of the Holy Father, who gives them his
blessing, while he bewails the condition of Europe, and anathematizes
those who "oppress" the Church--thus blessing and cursing at the same
time.
If my object in writing were to cast ridicule on the whole affair,
there is something very tempting in the easy and luxurious way in
which these modern pilgrimages are performed. Of old, when a pilgrim
set out for the Holy Land, it was with nothing but a staff in his
hand, and sandals on his feet, and thus he travelled hundreds of
leagues, over mountain and moor, through strange countries, begging
his way from door to door, reaching his object at last perhaps only to
die. Even the pilgrimage to Mecca has something imposing to the
imagination, as a long procession of camels files out of the streets
of Cairo, and takes the way of the desert. But these more fashionable
pilgrims travel by steam, in first-class railway carriages, with
Cook's excursion tickets, and are duly lodged and cared for, from the
moment they set out till they are safely returned to England. One of
Cook's agents in Paris told me he had thus conveyed a party of two
thousand. It must be confessed, this is devotion made easy, in
accordance with the spirit of the modern time, which is not exactly a
spirit of self-sacrifice, but "likes all things comfortable"--even
religion.
But my object was not to ridicule, but to observe. If I did not go as
a pilgrim, on the one hand, neither was it merely as a travelling
correspondent, aiming only at a sensational description. If I did not
go in a spirit of faith, it was at least in a spirit of candor, to
observe and report things exactly as I saw them.
But how was I to reach one of these holy shrines? They are a long way
off. The grotto of Lourdes, where the Holy Virgin is said to have
appeared to a girl of the country, is in the Pyrenees; while
Paray-le-Monial is nearly three hundred miles southeast from Paris.
However, it is not very far aside from the route to Switzerland, and
so we took it on our way to Geneva, resting over a day at Macon for
the purpose.
It was a bright summer morning when we started from Macon, and wound
our way among the vine-clad hills of the ancient province of Burgundy.
It is a picturesque country. Old chateaux hang upon the sides, or
crown the summits of the hills, while quaint little villages nestle at
their foot. In yonder village was born the poet and statesman,
Lamartine. We can see in passing the chateau where he lived, and here,
"after life's fitful fever, he sleeps well." All these sunny slopes
are covered with vineyards, which are now smiling in their summer
dress. I do not wonder that pilgrims, as they enter this
"hill-country," are often reminded of Palestine. Three hours brought
us to Paray-le-Monial, a little town of three or four thousand
inhabitants--just like hundreds of others in France, with nothing to
attract attention, except the marvellous tradition which has given it
a sudden and universal celebrity, and which causes devout Catholics to
approach it with a feeling of reverence.
The story of the place is this: In the little town is a convent, which
has been standing for generations. Here, _two hundred years ago_,
lived a nun, whose name was Marguerite Marie Alacoque, who was eminent
for her piety, who spent a great part of her life in prayer, and whose
devotion was at length rewarded by the personal appearance of our
Lord, who opened to her his bosom, and showed her his heart burning
with love for men, and bade her devote herself to the worship of that
"sacred heart"! These visitations were very frequent. Some of them
were in the chapel, and some in the garden attached to the convent.
The latter is not open to visitors, the Pope having issued an order
that the privacy of the _religieuses_ should be respected. But a
church near by overlooks it, and whoever will take the fatigue to
climb to the top, may look down into the forbidden place. As we were
determined to see everything, we mounted all the winding stone steps
in the tower, from which the keeper pointed out to us the very spot
where our Saviour appeared to the Bienheureuse, as he called her. In a
clump of small trees are two statues, one of the Lord himself, and the
other of the nun on her knees, as she instantly sank to the ground
when she recognized before her the Majesty of her blessed Lord. There
is another place in the garden where also she beheld the same heavenly
vision. Sometimes the "Seigneur" appeared to her unattended; at others
he was accompanied by angels and seraphim.
It is a little remarkable that this wonderful fact of the personal
appearance of Christ, though it occurred, according to the tradition,
_two hundred years ago_, did not attract more attention; that it was
neglected even by Catholic historians, until twelve years since--in
1863--when (as a part of a general movement "all along the line" to
revive the decaying faith of France) the marvellous story of this long
neglected saint was revived, and brought to the notice and adoration
of the religious world.
But let not cold criticism come in to mar the full enjoyment of what
we have come so far to see. The principal visitations were not in the
garden but in the chapel of the convent, which on that account bears
the name of the Chapel of the Visitation. Here is the tomb which
contains the body of the sainted nun, an image of whom in wax lies
above it under a glass case, dressed in the robe of her order, with a
crown on her head, to bring before the imagination of the faithful the
presence of her at whose shrine they worship. The chapel is separated
from the convent by a large grating, behind which the nuns can be
hidden and yet hear the service, and chant their offices. There it
was, so it is said, behind that grate, while in an ecstasy of prayer,
that our Saviour first appeared to the gaze of the enraptured nun. The
grate is now literally covered with golden hearts, the offerings of
the faithful. Similar gifts hang over the altar, while gilded banners
and other votive offerings cover the walls.
As we entered the chapel, it was evident that we were in what was to
many a holy place. At the moment there was no service going on, but
some were engaged in silent meditation and prayer. We seemed to be the
only persons present from curiosity. All around us were absorbed in
devotion. We sat a long time in silence, musing on the strange scene,
unwilling to disturb even by a whisper the stillness of the place, or
the thoughts of those who had come to worship. At three o'clock the
nuns began to sing their offices. But they did not show themselves.
There are other Sisters, who have the care of the chapel, and who come
in to trim the candles before the shrine, but the nuns proper live a
life of entire seclusion, never being seen by any one. Only their
voices are heard. Nothing could be more plaintive than their low
chanting, as it issued from behind the bars of their prison house, and
seemed to come from a distance. There, hidden from the eyes of all,
sat that invisible choir, and sang strains as soft as those which
floated over the shepherds of Bethlehem. As an accompaniment to the
scene in the chapel, nothing could be more effective; it was well
fitted to touch the imagination, as also when the priest intoned the
service in the dim light of this little church, with its censers
swinging with incense, and its ever-burning lamps.
The walls of the chapel are covered with banners, some from other
countries, but most from France, and here it is easy to see how the
patriotic feeling mingles with the religious. Here and there may be
seen the image of the sacred heart with a purely religious
inscription, such as _Voici le coeur qui a tant aime les hommes_
(here is the heart which has so loved men); but much more often it is,
COEUR DE JESUS, SAUVEZ LA FRANCE! This idea in some form constantly
reappears, and one cannot help thinking that this sudden outburst of
religious zeal has been greatly intensified by the disasters of the
German war; that for the first time French armies beaten in the field,
have resorted to prayer; that they fly to the Holy Virgin, and to the
Sacred Heart of Jesus to implore the protection which their own arms
could not give. Hung in conspicuous places on columns beside the
chancel are banners of Alsace and Lorraine, _covered with crape_, the
former with a cross in the centre, encircled with the words first
written in the sky before the adoring eyes of Constantine: IN HOC
SIGNO VINCES; while for Lorraine stands only the single name of METZ,
invested with such sad associations, with the inscription, SACRE
COEUR DE JESUS, SAUVEZ LA FRANCE!
There is no doubt that these pilgrimages have been encouraged by
French politicians, as a means of reviving and inflaming the
enthusiasm of the people, not only for the old Catholic faith, but for
the old Catholic monarchy. Of the tens of thousands who flock to these
shrines, there are few who are not strong Legitimists. On the walls of
the chapel the most glittering banner is that of HENRI DE BOURBON,
which is the name by which the Comte de Chambord chooses to be known
as the representative of the old royal race. Not to be outdone in
pious zeal, Marshal MacMahon, who is a devout Catholic--and his wife
still more so--has also sent a banner to Paray-le-Monial, but it is
not displayed with the same ostentation. The Legitimists have no wish
to keep his name too much before the French people. He is well enough
as a temporary head of the State till the rightful sovereign comes,
but when Henri de Bourbon appears, they want no "Marshal-President" to
stand in his way as he ascends the throne of his ancestors.
Thus excited by a strange mixture of religious zeal and political
enthusiasm, France pours its multitudes annually to these shrines of
Lourdes and Paray-le-Monial. We were too late for the rush this
year--the season was just over; for there is a season for going on
pilgrimages as for going to watering-places, and June is the month in
which they come in the greatest numbers. There have been as many as
twenty thousand in one day. On the 16th of June--which was a special
occasion--the crowd was so great that Mass was begun at two o'clock in
the morning, and repeated without ceasing till noon, the worshippers
retiring at the end of every half hour, that a new throng might take
their places. Thus successive pilgrims press forward to the holy
shrine, and go away with an elated, almost ecstatic feeling, that they
have left their sins and their sorrows at the tomb of the now sainted
and glorified nun.
What shall we say to this? That it is all nonsense--folly, born of
fanaticism and superstition? Medical men will have an easy way of
disposing of this nun and her visions, by saying that she was simply a
crazy woman; that nothing is more common than these fancies of a
distempered imagination; that such cases may be found in every lunatic
asylum; that hysterical women often think that they have seen the
Saviour, &c. Such is a very natural explanation of this singular
phenomenon. There is no reason to suppose that this nun was a
designing woman, that she intended to deceive. People who have visions
are the sincerest of human beings. They have unbounded faith in
themselves, and think it strange that an unbelieving world does not
give the same credit to their revelations.
From all that I have read of this Marie Alacoque, I am quite ready to
believe that she was indeed a very devout woman, who, buried in that
living tomb, a convent, praying and fasting, worked herself into such
a fever of excitement, that she thought the Saviour came down into the
garden, and into the chapel; that she saw his form and heard his
voice. To her it was all a living reality. But that her simple
statement, supported by no other evidence, should be gravely accepted
in this nineteenth century by men who are supposed to be still in the
possession of sober reason, is one of the strange things which it
would be impossible to believe, were it not that I have seen it with
my own eyes, and which is one more proof that wonders will never
cease.
But sincerity of faith always commands a certain respect, even when
coupled with ignorance and superstition. If this shows an extreme of
credulity absolutely pitiful, yet we must consider it not as _we_ look
at it, but as these devout pilgrims regard it. To them this spot is
one of the holy places of the world, for here they believe the
Incarnate Divinity descended to the earth; they believe that this
garden has been touched by His blessed feet; and that this little
chapel, so honored in the past, is still filled with the presence of
Him who once was here, but is now ascended up far above all heavens.
And hence this Paray-le-Monial in their minds is invested with the
same sacred associations with which we regard Nazareth and Bethlehem.
But with every disposition to look upon these manifestations in the
most indulgent light, it is impossible not to feel that there is
something very French in this way of attempting to revive the faith of
a great nation. Among this people everything seems to have a touch of
the theatrical--even in their religion there is frequency more of show
than of conviction. Thus this new worship is not addressed to the name
of our Saviour, but to His "sacred heart"! There is something in that
image which seems to take captive the French imagination. The very
words have a rich and mellow sound. And so the attempt which was
begun in an obscure village of Burgundy, is now proclaimed in Paris
and throughout the kingdom, to dedicate France to the sacred heart of
Jesus.
This peculiar form of worship is the new religious fashion. A few
weeks since an imposing service attracted the attention of Paris. A
procession of bishops and priests, followed by great numbers of the
faithful, wound through the streets, up to the heights of Montmartre,
there to lay, with solemn ceremonies, the corner-stone of a new church
dedicated to the sacred heart. We drove to the spot, which is the
highest in the whole circle of Paris, and which overlooks it almost as
Edinburgh Castle overlooks that city. There one looks down on the
habitations of two millions of people. A church erected on that
height, with its golden cross lifted into mid-heaven, would seem like
a banner in the sky, to hold up before this unbelieving people an
everlasting sign of the faith.
But though the Romish Church should consecrate ever so many shrines;
though it build churches and cathedrals, and rear its flaming crosses
on every hill and mountain from the Alps to the Pyrenees; it is not
thus that religion is to be enthroned in the hearts of a nation. The
fact is not to be disguised that France has fallen away from the
faith. It looks on at all these attempts with indifference, or with an
amused curiosity. If popular writers notice them at all, it is to make
them an object of ridicule. At one of the Paris theatres an actor
appears dressed as a Brahmin, and offers to swear "by the sacred heart
of _a cow_" (that being a sacred animal in India). The hit is caught
at once by the audience, who answer it with applause. It is thus that
the populace of Paris sneer at the new superstition.
Would to God that France might be speedily recovered to a true
Christian faith; but it is not to be by any such fantastic tricks or
theatrical devices, by shows or processions, by gilded crosses or
waving banners, or by going on pilgrimages as in the days of the
Crusades. Even the Catholic Church has more efficient instruments at
command. The Sisters of Charity in hospitals are far more effective
missionaries than nuns behind the bars of a convent, singing hymns to
the Virgin, or lamps burning before the shrine of a saint dead
hundreds of years ago. If France is ever to be brought back to the
faith, it must be by arguments addressed to the understanding, which
shall meet the objections of modern science and philosophy; and, above
all, by living examples of its power. If Religion is to conquer the
modern world; if it is even to keep its present hold among the
nations, it must be brought into contact with the minds and hearts of
the people as never before; it must grapple with the problems of
modern society, with poverty and misery in all its forms. Especially
in the great capitals of Europe it has its hardest field, and there it
must go into all the narrow lanes and miserable dwellings, it must
minister to the sick, and clothe the naked and feed the hungry. France
will never be converted merely by dramatic exhibitions, that touch the
imagination. It must be by something that can touch the conscience and
the heart. Thus only can the heart of France ever be won to "the
sacred heart of Jesus."