“But he sits at the table, and tries the best he can. If you’d seen him
the first night after it was all over! I came up and poured the tea
out for him, and, indeed, my eyes were so full I came near scalding
myself with it. He took something on his plate, and made believe taste
of it, and talked in a cheerful sort of way about the weather and about
something he wanted to have done. But when he saw my hand holding the
cup out to him, he stopped short in what he was saying, and choked up,
and then he leaned back in his chair and burst out a-crying. It was
the same little cup and spoon she always gave him, but it wasn’t the
same woman that held it across the table for him to take. And I set
the cup down and cried too: what else? And, ‘Jane,’ says he, ‘where’s
the little hand that for years has been stretched out to me every
evening?’ What could the like of me say, ma’am, to comfort a priest
in his sorrow? I couldn’t help speaking, though, and says I, ‘May be
there isn’t the length of the table between you,’ says I, ‘and the
little hand is holding out the first bitter cup it ever offered you
to drink. But, oh! drink it, father dear,’ says I, ‘and may be you’ll
find a blessing at the bottom.’ And then I was so ashamed of myself
for preaching to the priest that I ran out of the room. After a little
while his bell rang, and I wiped my eyes, and went in. And there he sat
with a trembling kind of a smile on his face, and says he, ‘Jane, how
am I to get my tea at all?’ So I gave him the cup, and went and stood
by the fireplace. And he talked about things in the house, and asked me
if I didn’t want my mother to come and live with me. The Lord knows I
didn’t, ma’am, through my mother not being overneat, besides taking a
drop now and then. But it’s decenter, and so I said yes. And when I was
cheered up a little, he sent me out. But when I was going through the
door, he spoke to me, and says he, ‘Jane!’ And when I looked back, and
said ‘Sir!’ says he, ‘Jane, you’re right. There is a blessing at the
bottom of it.’ And he smiled in a way that was sadder than tears. Since
that he has the tray set at his elbow, and pours the tea for himself.
And now, ma’am, I’m going to tell you something that you mustn’t let
anybody know, for may be I oughtn’t to speak of it. That first night
following the funeral I heard him walking about his room after I went
to bed, and I knew he couldn’t sleep; though, indeed, it was little
that any of us slept that night. Well, by-and-by, when I’d been drowsy
like, I heard him go out into the entry, and I thought that perhaps
some one had rung the bell. I was frightened for fear of who it might
be; so I got up, and threw something on, and crept up the stairs, and
peeped through the rail, all ready to scream for help. I watched him
open the door, with the street-lamp shining not far off; and, O Mrs.
Gerald! if he didn’t kneel down there and kiss the threshold where she
stood that night watching him drive away; and he cried that pitiful
that it was all I could do not to cry out loud myself, and let him know
I was there.”
The first sharpness of the impression made by this event wore away,
and people began to talk of other things. Some wealthy Protestants
of Crichton made up for F. Chevreuse the money he had lost, and thus
soothed their regret for the loss which they could not repair to him.
Even those who were most grieved felt their lives closing over the
wound. Duties and plans that had been interrupted were resumed, among
them that for a concert in aid of the new convent. Miss Ferrier’s
rehearsal had been a last preparation for this concert, which had been
postponed on account of the death of Mother Chevreuse, and it was
necessary to have another.
Annette threw herself into these preparations with spirit. Her affairs
were prospering as well as she could expect. F. Chevreuse had talked
with Mrs. Ferrier, and brought her to reason, and Lawrence had been
induced to yield a little. It was settled that the marriage should
take place on the first of September, and the young couple spend one
year with the mother. After that they were to be free to go where they
liked, Annette with an ample allowance assured her, and a promise that
the property should be equally divided in case of her mother’s death.
“The young man is behaving very well,” F. Chevreuse said, “and he ought
to be trusted and encouraged. He goes regularly to Mass, and attends
closely to his business. I shall not soon forget how much he did for me
when—when I was away that night. The shock seems to have awakened him.
He sees what indolence and unfixed principles may lead to, and that a
man who rocks like a boat on the tide of his own passions may drift
anywhere. We must be good to him.”
“If you would only give him a plain talking to, father,” Mrs. Ferrier
said. She had an immense faith in the power of talk. “If you would tell
him what he ought to do, and what he ought not to do. Just warn him.”
The priest shook his head.
“I believe in sometimes leaving God to warn in his own way,” he said.
“It is a mistake for even the wisest man to be perpetually thrusting
his clumsy fingers into the delicate workings of the human soul. We are
priests, but we are not Gods; and men and women are not fools. They
should be left to themselves sometimes. God has occasional messages for
his children which do not need our intervention. Too much direction is
degrading to an intelligent soul.”
F. Chevreuse had been involuntarily expressing the thought that
started up in his own mind rather than addressing his companion; and,
seeing at a glance that she had not understood a word of what he had
been saying, he smilingly adapted his talk to her comprehension.
“I heard a story once,” he said, “of a careful mother who was going
away from home to spend the day. Before starting, she called her
children about her, and, after telling them of certain things which
they were not to do, she concluded in this wise: ‘And don’t you go up
into the back attic, to the dark corner behind the big chimney, and
take up a loose board in the floor, and pull out a bag of dry beans
there is there, and get beans in your noses.’ Then she went away,
having forbidden every evil which she could imagine might happen to
them. When she came home at night, every child had a bean up its nose.
Don’t you see she had better not have said anything about those beans?
The children didn’t know where they were. No; if you want to keep
any one from evil, talk to him of what is good. The more you look at
evil, even to abuse it, the less shocking it is to you. The more you
talk about it, the more people will do it. Sometimes it must be spoken
of; but beware of saying too much. Do you know when darkness appears
darkest? When you have been looking at light. Therefore, my lady, say
all that is pleasant to this young man, and try to forget that there
ever was anything unpleasant.”
Mrs. Ferrier was not one to oppose the earnestly expressed wish of a
clergyman, and, at this time, all F. Chevreuse’s people felt an unusual
desire to show him their love and obedience. Besides, she was rather
proud of having been considered so implacable that no one but a priest
could influence her, and of being able to say, in defence of her change
of plan: “I did it for the sake of F. Chevreuse.” She even boasted a
little of this intercession, and took care it should be known that the
church had begged her to be lenient, and had for a moment anxiously
awaited her decision.
“Besides,” she would add, “he takes a good deal more pains to be
pleasant now.”
Lawrence, indeed, took no such pains, and, perhaps, liked Annette’s
mother less than ever. The only change was in herself. She had, by
being civil to him, rendered it possible for him to be agreeable. When
he was spoken of slightingly, she had insulted him; when he was praised
to her, she conciliated. It was not necessary that there should be any
change in him.
Annette, too, had taken his cause up with a high hand. The passion
of love, which had sometimes made her timid in speaking of him, was
unconsciously giving place to a passion of pity, which made her
fearless. Woe to the servant who was dilatory in waiting on Mr. Gerald,
or lacking in any sign of respect for him. He was consulted about
everything. Not a curtain, nor chair, nor spoon could be bought till
he had approved. A cool “I will see what Lawrence thinks of it,” was
enough to postpone a decision on any subject. “He has taste, and we
have nothing but money.” If the phrase is not a contradiction, it
might be said that she abased herself haughtily in order to exalt him.
If they had company to dinner, Lawrence must glance over the list of
dishes; if a new plant arrived, he must advise where it should be set;
if a stranger came to town, it was for Lawrence to decide whether the
Ferriers should show him hospitality.
“I think our rehearsal may as well be also a little garden-party,”
Annette said to him. “We need scarcely any practice, nothing to speak
of, everything went so well the last time.”
She was tying on her bonnet before a mirror in the drawing room, and
Lawrence stood by a window, hat in hand, looking out at the carriage
waiting at the gate. He did not seem to have heard her.
“I should only ask a few persons who will be sure to go to the concert
and help along,” she continued, twirling lightly about to see if the
voluminous folds of her black silk train fell properly. She wanted
Lawrence to notice her, for she was looking uncommonly well. Black was
becoming to her; and the delicate lavender gloves, and bunch of scarlet
geranium-flowers half lost in lace just behind her left ear, gave
precisely the touch of color that was needed. But he stood immovable,
watching the horses, perhaps, or watching nothing.
Seeing him so abstracted, she looked at him a moment, remembering an
old story she had read of Apollo apprenticed to a swine-herd. Here was
one, she thought, who might have graced Olympus, yet who had been bound
down to poverty, and labor, and disappointment. His pale and melancholy
face showed that he might be mourning even now his ignominious
captivity. Thank God, she could help him! He should not always be so
sorrowful.
He moved slightly, without looking toward her, aware of her silence,
though he had not noticed her speech. She checked, with an effort, the
impulse to go to him with some affectionate inquiry, and went on with
what she had been saying. “We need the editors, of course, and I can
ask Dr. Porson to bring Mr. Sales. They say he is very clever, and will
bring _The Aurora_ up again. They will give us puffs, you know. If I
send the doctor a note this afternoon, he will tell Mr. Sales this
evening, and he can write a nice little report of the rehearsal before
he comes to it, and have it out to-morrow morning.”
“Are you ready?” asked Lawrence, turning round from the window.
“All but this.” She gave him a little gold glove-buttoner; and held out
her hand.
“By the way,” she said suddenly, “have you heard the story about Mr.
Schöninger?”
Lawrence let slip the tiny button he had just caught, and stared at her
in silence. Perhaps he remembered something that Jane, the priest’s
housekeeper, had charged him not to tell.
“Such a romantic story!” she said, smiling at having won his attention.
“I forgot to tell you. They say that he has a lawsuit going on in
England about an immense property to which he is the rightful heir.
It is from some very distant relative who left Germany for England a
hundred years ago. He has no personal acquaintance with any of the
family there now; but ten years ago, he learned that the heirs had died
out leaving him nearest to the estate. He was then in Germany, and had
a little property, on which he lived like a gentleman. He spent every
dollar he had in the effort to obtain his rights, but did not succeed.
Neither did he fail; but more money was needed. And that’s the reason
why he came to this country and became a music-teacher, and why he
lives so plainly, and works all the time. Lily Carthusen told me she
heard that he sent money to England every quarter, and that all his
earnings go into that lawsuit.”
“Lily Carthusen knows a great deal about other people’s business,”
the young man remarked ungraciously. “She is one of the kind who peep
into letters and listen at doors. I wouldn’t repeat any of her stories,
Annette.”
“I only tell you, Lawrence,” she replied humbly.
“Well, I don’t believe a word of it,” he said. “Schöninger is a fine
fellow; and people imagine there is some mystery about him, simply
because he won’t tell everybody his business, and who his grandfather
and grandmother were. There are thousands of persons in this city who,
if you should keep one room in your house locked, would believe that it
was full of stolen goods.”
They were going out through the door now, and Annette assumed a bright
smile. No one must see her looking mortified or sad, least of all when
she was with Lawrence. She stepped lightly into the carriage, and gave
her order with the air of one anticipating a charming drive. “To the
convent, Jack, straight through the town, and slowly.”
Which meant that they intended to have some conversation, and were not
unwilling to be observed.
“I always like to see the sisters when I am out of tune,” Miss Ferrier
said. “They are so soothing and cheerful. Besides, they are brave. They
fear nothing. They are not always quaking, as people in the world are.
They have the courage of children who know that they will be taken care
of. I always feel stronger after being with them. Not that I am usually
timid, though. I think I have more courage than you, Lawrence.”
She smiled playfully, giving her true words the air of a jest.
He looked straight ahead, and ignored the jest. “You have a clear
conscience, that is the reason,” he replied. “It’s the old serpent in
the tree that makes it shaky.”
“It is very true,” she said calmly, after a moment’s consideration. “I
do not believe I ever did anything wicked.”
“As a rule, I don’t like religious people,” the young man observed;
“but I’ve no objection to any of the nuns. The fact that they will wear
unbecoming dresses and cut off their hair proves them sincere. It’s the
strongest proof a good-looking woman could give. You needn’t laugh,
Annette. Just think a minute, and you’ll find it is so. Now, look at
that little Anita I saw up there once. She’s as pink and white as the
inside of a sea-shell, and her hair must be a yard long, and beautiful
hair at that. Yet she is going to have those braids cut off, and hide
her face under a black bonnet. That means something. I only hope she
may not be sorry when it is too late. I’d like to talk with her. Ask to
see her to-day, won’t you?”
Annette’s answer was very gravely uttered. “Certainly, if you wish,”
she said. “But you will not have much opportunity for conversation with
her.”
He roused himself, just beginning to take some interest in their talk.
“You can manage it, Annette. Get her singing for me, then take Sister
Cecilia off out of the room.”
He spoke coaxingly, and with a faint smile; but she did not lift her
eyes. “You know there must be no trifling with such a person, Lawrence.
Why need you wish to speak to Anita? Is it impossible for you to see an
interesting girl without trying to captivate her? You need not be proud
of such success.”
He threw himself back on the cushions again. “Oh! if you are jealous,
there is no more to be said about it.”
As she remained silent, he presently stole a questioning glance into
her face, and, seeing the cloud on it, smiled again. It always amused
him to see any evidence of his power over women, and no proof could be
stronger than the sight of their pain.
“Don’t be silly now, Ninon!” he said softly. “You know I don’t mean to
trifle nor flirt, but only to satisfy my curiosity. I never spoke to a
young vestal like that, and I would like to know what sort of language
they use. Be good, dear!”
That coaxing voice could still make her smile, though it could no
longer cheat her into delight. She looked at him indulgently, as one
looks at a spoilt child whom one has no desire to reprove, yet sighs
over. “I will do what I can, Lawrence; but you must be careful not to
behave so that the sisters will wish to exclude you in future.”
“That’s a good girl!”
Then his momentary gaiety dropped off like a mask.
“Yes, I like to see that kind of religion,” he resumed. “But I hate a
gilt-edged piety. I despise those people who are so nice that they call
the devil ‘the D., you know,’ and whose religion is all promenade-dress
and genuflections. I suspect them. I was talking the other day with a
lady who said something about the ‘D., you know,’ and I answered, ‘No,
I don’t know. What do you mean?’ She had to say it; and I haven’t a
doubt she always says it when she is angry. Bah!”
They had reached the gate, and, seeing no one, alighted and left the
carriage there. But Sister Cecilia met them at the entrance, her
welcoming smile like a benediction.
As they entered the parlor, they surprised a little domestic tableau.
The door leading to an inner room was partly open, and braced against
a chair in which were a pail of steaming water and a bar of soap.
Sister Bernadette, the chief music-teacher, held the door-knob in one
hand, while with the other she was vigorously scouring the panels. Her
sleeves were rolled up to the shoulders, a large apron covered her from
chin to slipper, and her veil was removed. As she scoured, her full,
sweet face was uplifted, and her large blue eyes watched the success of
her labor with perfect earnestness and good-will.
A burst of laughter revealed the spectators to her. Mr. Gerald stood
just within the room, bowing profoundly, with gravity and some
diffidence, but the two ladies were thoroughly amused.
“Would you not think,” cried Sister Cecilia, “that she expected to see
that dingy old door turn between her hands into the great pearl of the
New Jerusalem gate? You certainly did expect a miracle, Bernadette.”
Sister Bernadette’s blush was but momentary, only the rapid color of
surprise that faded away in dimples as she smiled. Her sleeves were
pulled down and her veil snatched on in a trice, and she went to meet
their visitors with an air that would have adorned a drawing-room.
“Sister is a witch,” she said. “I was thinking of the gates of the New
Jerusalem, though not expecting a miracle.”
This lady, whom we find scrubbing a door, with her sleeves rolled up,
was the child of wealth and gentle blood. She had beauty, talents, and
culture, and her life had been without a cloud, save those light ones
that only enhance the surrounding brightness. Yet she had turned away
from the world, not in bitterness and disappointment, nor because it
was to her unbeautiful, but because its fragments of beauty served
only to remind her of the infinite loveliness. She had not Sister
Cecilia’s enthusiasm; but her heart was a fountain for ever full of
love, and cheerfulness, and a gentle courage. She seemed to live in a
sunny, spiritual calm above the storms of life.
After a few graceful words, she took leave, promising to send Anita
to them. Miss Ferrier wished Mr. Gerald to hear the girl play on the
piano, and Miss Ferrier was a benefactor to their community, and,
therefore, a person to be obliged. Otherwise they might not have
thought it profitable for the child to receive a morning-call from
fashionable people who were neither related to nor intimate with her.
Anita came in presently, as a moonbeam comes in when you lift the
curtain at night. Softly luminous and without sound, it is there. This
girl was rather small and dark-haired, and had a dazzling fairness of
complexion to which her simple brown dress was in admirable contrast.
Her eyes were blue and almost always downcast, as if she would wish
to hide that full, unsteady radiance that shone out through them.
Nothing could have been more charming than her manner—timid without
awkwardness, and showing that innocent reserve of a child which springs
neither from fear nor distrust. She met Miss Ferrier sweetly, but was
not the first to extend her hand; and Annette’s kiss, to which she
only submitted, left a red spot on her cheek which lingered for some
time after. She was one of those sensitive flowers that shrink from
the lightest touch. No love was delicate enough for her except that
ineffable love of the “Spouse of virgins.”
Lawrence Gerald watched her with enchantment. The immense gravity and
respect of her salutation to him had made him smile. It was a new
study for him. How sunburnt and hackneyed Annette seemed beside this
fair little cloistered snowdrop! Poor Annette, with her grieved and
disappointed heart, which surely had not chosen the rough ways of the
world, and would gladly have been loved and shielded as this girl had
been, received scant charity from the man whose sole hope she was. So
are our misfortunes imputed to us as crimes!
Anita played admirably on the piano, turning the music for herself.
After her first gentle refusal of his help, Lawrence did not venture to
press the matter, fearing to alarm her timidity; but he seated himself
near, and, affecting not to observe her, watched every movement.
After the first piece, Miss Ferrier and Sister Cecilia, seated by
a distant window, began to talk in whispers about various business
affairs; but as the gentleman by the piano was listening, and pushed
toward her a second sheet of music when she laid the first aside, the
performer did not rise.
“Yes,” Sister Cecilia was saying, her eyes fixed on a rough sofa the
nuns had themselves stuffed cushions for, “I think there is something
up-stairs that will do to cover it. We have several large packages
that have not been opened. They were sent here the day after Mother
Chevreuse died, and we have had no heart to touch them since. There are
some shawls, and blankets, and quilts that Mrs. Macon gathered for us
from any one who would give. I am sure we shall find something there
that will do very well.”
“And now sing for me,” Lawrence said gently, as Anita ended her
second piece. “I am sure you sing. You....” He checked himself there,
not daring to finish his speech. “You have the full throat of a
singing-bird,” he was going to say.
He placed on the music-rack a simple little _Ave Maria_, and she sang
it in a pure, flute-toned voice, and with a composed painstaking to do
her best that provoked him. He leaned a little, only a little, nearer
when she had ended, and sat with her eyes downcast, the lashes making a
shadow on her smooth, colorless cheeks.
“It is a sweet song,” he said; “but you can sing what is far more
difficult and expressive. Sing once again, something stronger. Give me
a love-song.”
He trembled at his own audacity, and his face reddened as he brought
out the last words. Would she start up and rush out of the room? Would
she blush, or burst into tears? Nothing of the kind. She merely sat
with her eyes downcast, and her fingers resting lightly on the keys,
and tried to recollect something.
Then a little smile, faint from within, touched the corners of her
mouth, her eyes were lifted fully and fixed on air, and she sang that
hymn beloved by S. Francis Xaverius:
“O Deus! ego amo te.”
It was no longer the pale and timid novice. Fire shone from her
uplifted eyes, a roseate color warmed her transparent face, and the
soul of a smile hovered about her lips. It was the bride singing to her
Beloved.
When she had finished the last words, the singer turned toward the
window, as if looking to Sister Cecilia for sympathy, knowing well that
only with her could she find it, and perceived then that she was alone
with Lawrence Gerald.
Annette, half ashamed of herself for doing it, had kept her promise,
and lured the sister out of the parlor on some pretext.
Anita rose immediately, made the gentleman a slight obeisance, and
glided from the room without uttering a word.
When she had gone, he sat there confounded. “She a child!” he muttered.
“She is the most self-possessed and determined woman I ever met.”
The love-song he had asked for addressed to God, and her abrupt
departure, were to his mind proofs of the most mortifying rebuff he had
ever received.
But he mistook, not knowing the difference between a child of earth
and a child of heaven. That he could mean any other kind of love-song
than the one she had sung never entered Anita’s mind. Love was to her
an everyday word, oftener on her lips than any other. She spoke of love
in the last waking moment at night and the first one in the morning.
There was no reason why she should fear the word. As to the rest, it
was nothing but obedience.
“Why did you come out, my dear?” asked Sister Cecilia, meeting her in
the entry.
“Sister Bernadette told me never to remain alone with a gentleman,”
Anita replied simply.
Lawrence was just saying to himself that, after all, her fear of
staying with him was rather flattering, when she re-entered the room
with Annette and the sister, and came to the piano again. It was
impossible for vanity to blind him. He had not stirred the faintest
ripple on the surface of her heart. It was a salutary mortification.
Sister Cecilia carried in her hands a man’s large gray shawl. Opening
it out, she threw it over their improvised sofa, and tucked it in
around the arms and the cushions. “It will do nicely,” she said. “And
we do not need it for a wrap or a spread.”
Annette viewed it a little. “So it will,” she acquiesced. “A few large
pins will keep it in place. But here is a little tear in the corner.
Let me turn it the other way. There! that does nicely, doesn’t it,
Lawrence?”
She turned in speaking to him, but he was not there. He had stepped out
into the porch, and was beckoning Jack to drive the carriage up inside
the grounds.
They took leave after a minute.
“Be sure you all pray for the success of our concert,” was Annette’s
farewell charge to the sister. “We are to have our last rehearsal
to-night.”
She glanced into her companion’s face as they drove along, but
refrained from asking him any questions about his interview with Anita.
His expression did not indicate that he had derived much pleasure from
it.
TO BE CONTINUED.
MUSIC.
WHEN the heart is overflowing,
Now with sorrow, now with joy,
And its fulness mocks our showing,
Like a spell that words destroy:
When the soul is all devotion,
Till its rapture grows a pain
And to free the pent emotion
Even prayer’s wings spread in vain:
Then but one relief is given:
Not a voice of mortal birth,
But a language born in heaven,
And in mercy lent to earth:
Lent to consecrate our sighing,
Shed a glory on our tears,
And uplift us without dying
To the Vision-circled spheres.
AN ART PILGRIMAGE THROUGH ROME.
ROME as we saw it in 1863 was already so far modernized as to possess
two railway lines, one on the Neapolitan and one on the Civita Vecchia
side. The old and more romantic entrance was by the Porta del Popolo,
which was reached by crossing the Ponte Molle. Two traditions help to
invest this plain, strong bridge with peculiar interest. It was within
sight of it that the great battle was fought which decided the triumph
of Constantine and Christianity in the already tottering Roman Empire.
Here the miraculous cross appeared to the great leader the night before
the battle, lighting up the horizon with its mystic radiance, and
blazoning forth those prophetic words: _In hoc signo vinces_—“In this
sign shalt thou conquer”—which were afterwards graven as the motto of
the emperor on his new standard, or _labarum_. Near the Ponte Molle,
too, then called Pons Milviensis, were the spoils of the temple, and
notably the seven-branched candlestick, thrown into the Tiber to save
them from the hands of the invading Huns; and it is seriously believed
that, were the river to be drained and carefully dredged in that spot,
many rare and valuable historical relics would be found. It is supposed
that, the flow of the water being very sluggish, and the mud, with
its tawny color, oozy and detaining, these treasures may easily have
remained embedded in their unsavory hiding-place.
The modern entrance from the Civita Vecchia side is unattractive in
the extreme, but the new depot at the Piazza de’ Termini affords a
very fair first view of Rome. Before reaching the city, a beautiful
spectacle is presented by the long rows of aqueducts standing sharply
defined out of the low, olive-spotted plain, and by the massive tomb
of Cecilia Metella, rising in towering prominence among the lesser
monuments of the Appian Way. Beautiful at all times, this scene of
lovely and suggestive grandeur is still more beautiful by moonlight;
and, if one could forget the unfortunate details of that most prosaic
of modern buildings, a railway-station, the Piazza de’ Termini would
hardly break the spell. On one side are the ruins of the baths of
Diocletian, their brick walls covered with golden wall-flowers, and
just beyond them the cloister and church of Santa Maria degli Angeli.
The interior of this church is supported by huge monolith columns
of granite, still bearing the marks of the fire which destroyed the
baths, from whose adjoining halls they were taken. On the opposite
side are the prisons for women—a far happier and more peaceful abode
than most places of the sort, the _jailers_ being cloistered sisters
specially vowed to this heroic work of self-devotion. A little further
on is the great fountain, divided into three compartments, each backed
by a _basso-rilievo_ of great merit, the centre one representing in
gigantic proportions Moses striking the rock. The small domed church
of the Vittoria, which faces the fountain, is the national _ex-voto_
commemorating the battle of Lepanto, and boasts a masterpiece of one of
the sculptors of the Renaissance—a term too often convertible with
artistic decadence. This is a languishing and affected but marvellously
correct statue of S. Teresa on her death-bed; and the church is served
by barefooted Carmelite friars. The streets branching from the Piazza,
though not so narrow, are to the full as crooked as those in the lower
portion of the city; but, to the practised Italian traveller, they will
appear almost wide. Those of Genoa and Venice are veritable lanes,
through which two wheelbarrows could not pass each other, and across
which you could literally shake hands out of the windows of each floor;
so that the Roman streets do not strike you as uncommonly narrow,
unless you are fresh from Paris or Munich.
Here are the same peculiarities as in most other Italian towns, but
fraught with a deeper meaning, since we are at the headquarters of
the religion which gives them birth: the frequent shrines at the
street-corners, chiefly of the Blessed Virgin and the divine Infant,
rudely enough represented, but denoting the steadfast faith of the
people, and kept perpetually adorned by a lighted oil-lamp in a blue
or red glass; the stalls in the markets, which, by the way, stand only
in the dingier thoroughfares round the Pantheon and S. Eustachio;
the strange medley of meat, vegetables, flowers, antiquities; in
summer, the mounds of cut water-melons (the Roman’s favorite fruit),
and the ricketty stands piled with figs in all the confused shades
of purple, black, green, and white; in winter, the _scaldini_, or
little square boxes filled with charcoal, which the market-women carry
about everywhere—to market, to church, and very often to bed; the
curious antique lamps of brass with two or three beaks, each bearing
a weak flame, and the whole thing a copy, line for line, of the old
Roman lamps of two thousand years ago; on S. Joseph’s day, the 19th
of March, the stalls decorated with garlands of green, and heaped
with _fritellette_ (fried fish under various disguises); the peasant
funeral winding slowly through the crowd, with the corpse, that of a
young girl, lying uncovered, but enwreathed in simple flowers, on an
open bier borne by the cowled members of a pious brotherhood specially
dedicated to this work, and whose faces even are covered, leaving only
the eyes visible through two narrow slits; the droves of Campagna oxen,
cream-colored, mild, Juno-eyed, and with thick, smooth, branching
horns; the flocks of Campagna buffaloes, shaggy and fierce, with eyes
like pigs, humps on their necks, and short, crooked horns—a very
fair impersonation of the evil one for an imaginary “temptation of S.
Anthony”; then, finally, at Christmas time, the _pifferari_, peasants
of the Abruzzi, whose immemorial custom it is to come on an annual
musical pilgrimage to Rome, and play their mountain airs before every
street-shrine in the city.
These latter are deserving of a more lengthened notice, and, indeed,
no traveller can fail to be struck by the rugged picturesqueness of
their appearance. Some one has not inappropriately called them the
“satyrs of the Campagna,” though they belong rather to the mountain
than to the plain. Their dress is that which we are erroneously taught
to connect with the traditional ideal of a brigand (an ideal, by the
way, very unjustly supposed to be realized by the honest, industrious,
and deluded peasants of whom New York has recently said such hard
things)—a high, conical felt hat, with a frayed feather or red band
and tassels; a red waistcoat; a coarse blue jacket and leggings,
sometimes of the shaggy hair of white goats (hence the title satyr),
sometimes of tanned skin bound round with cords that interlace as
far as the knee. The ample cloak common to all Roman and Neapolitan
peasants completes the costume, and gives it a dignity which sits
well upon them. Their instruments are very primitive, and the tunes
they perform are among the oldest national airs of Italy, transmitted
intact from father to son by purely oral teaching. They always go in
couples, and, while one plays the _zampogna_, or bagpipe, the other
accompanies him on the _piffero_, or pastoral pipe—a short, flute-like
instrument. These are the men who make the fortunes of many an artist,
and who, as models, are transformed as often as Proteus or Jupiter of
old. The broad flight of steps leading from the Piazza di Spagna to
the Pincian hill is their chief resort when off duty as _pifferari_,
and on the lookout as models; and any guide could show you among them
Signor So-and-So’s “Moses,” or Madame Such-a-one’s “S. Joseph,” besides
innumerable other characters, Biblical and classical, sustained by at
most only a dozen men of flesh and blood. A few women there are among
them, some in the characteristic but rare costume which is erroneously
supposed to be the only one worn in the neighborhood of Rome, namely,
the square fold of spotless linen on the head (a style almost Egyptian
in its massiveness) and narrow skirt of darkest blue, with an apron of
carpet-like pattern and texture. A row of heavy coral beads encircles
their throats, and the ample folds of their loose chemise of white
cotton are confined by a blue bodice laced up the front. These figures
suggest themselves as splendid models for a set of Caryatides, but they
are more usually painted as typical peasant women, and sometimes, when
old, as S. Elizabeth, S. Anne, or the Sibyls.
The confusion of gaily-attired or dark-robed figures in the streets is
at first bewildering to the stranger, especially on a festival day,
when one would think that the middle ages had broken up through the
thin crust of levelling modern decorum. Here are Capuchin friars, in
their coarse brown tunics confined round the waist by a white knotted
cord, hurrying with large baskets on their arms from house to house to
collect their meal of broken refuse; further on is a Papal zouave in
his uniform of gray and his white half-leggings—a foreigner and very
likely a noble, fair, slight, and dignified, like Col. de Charrette,
the grandson of the great Vendean leader of 1793; here, again, comes an
_abbate_, with his enormous black three-cornered hat and his long and
ample cloak or garment gathered in a line of full, close folds at his
back, and sweeping thence around his person with all the picturesque
dignity of a Roman toga; jostling against this dark figure is the
lithe, cat-like French soldier, cheery and open-faced; beyond him
hurry lackeys in rich but faded liveries that look as if they had been
fashioned out of tapestry; peasants in every garb, some clustering
round a _scrivano_, or public letter-writer, established in the open
air at a rickety table, with a few sheets of dirty paper and a heap of
limp red wafers for his stock in trade; and others intent upon their
birthright, _i.e._ noisy and successful begging.
Perhaps one of the most curious sights to a stranger is to be found
in the back yards of houses inhabited by swarms of families who have
but one well among them from which to draw water. The well is in the
middle of the courtyard, and from it to every window of the house (and
often of several adjoining houses) runs a strong wire cord. On this
is slung a bucket, which is let down or drawn up by a pulley easily
managed from the window; and all day long this ingenious manœuvre is
constantly repeated with sundry whirring noises quite novel to the
northern ear. It would need volumes to give any idea of the mere outer
picturesqueness of Roman scenes, much more of the varied beauties that
do not at once catch the eye. The Ghetto, or Jews’ quarter, affords
one of the most peculiar street-sights. The streets here are narrower,
darker, filthier than elsewhere, the stalls are dingier, the poverty
more apparent. Rags everywhere and in every stage of dilapidation—rags
hung out over your head like banners; rags spread on the knees of the
industrious women, who with deft fingers are mending and darning them;
rags laid in shelves and coffers; rags clothing the swarthy children
that tumble about the grimy door-steps—a very nightmare of rags. And
among them, exiles: gorgeous robes hidden away where you would least
expect them, rare laces of gossamer texture and historical interest,
brocades that once graced a coronation, and even gems that the Queen
of Sheba might have envied. Mingled in race and broken in spirit
as are these Jews, weak descendants of the stern old Bible heroes,
one touching evidence of their loyalty to their ancient traditions
remains. We were told of it by Dr. O——, of the Propaganda College,
who had many friends among the Hebrew Rabbis. The Arch of Titus in
the Forum, or what is now vulgarly called the Campo Vaccino (oxen’s
field or market), is a magnificent trophy commemorating the last
victory of Rome over Jerusalem. Its _bassorilievi_, both exterior and
interior, represent the sacking of the Holy City and the despoiling
of the temple. The carvings of the triumphal procession bearing aloft
the rifled treasures of the Holy of Holies, the great seven-branched
candlestick, the mystic table of the “loaves of proposition,” the
golden bowls and censers, naturally enough excite feelings of bitter
regret in the breast of the exiled and wandering race. So it happens
that no good and true Jew passing through the Forum will ever follow
the road that leads under this beautiful sculptured monument of his
country’s fall, nor even let its shadow fall upon his head as he
passes it by. This sign of faithful mourning certainly struck us as
very significant and poetical. There are two synagogues in the Ghetto,
and it is curious to reflect that these Hebrew temples were tolerated
within the walls of Rome by a government which proscribed Anglican
chapels and relegated the worship of the English visitors beyond the
Porta del Popolo. This restriction may have unheedingly been called
intolerant; but let us stay for a moment to examine its reason.
Rome was a theocracy and swayed by directly opposite principles to
any other existing state, and it could no more allow of promiscuous
worship within its domain than of old the Hebrew high-priest could
have allowed the Moabitish altars to be erected at the doors of the
Ark of God. In speaking of the Rome of the popes, it is absolutely
necessary for a non-Catholic to set his mind to a different focus from
that which answers the ordinary purposes of travel and observation;
it is necessary to do as Hawthorne says somewhere in his romance of
the _Marble Faun_—that is, to look at the pictured window of a great
cathedral _from the inside_, where the harmony of form, of color, and
of distribution is plainly visible; not from the _outside_, where an
unmeaning network of dark, irregular patches of glass vexes the eye of
the gazer.
One is apt at first to wander through these Roman streets in the
indecision brought on by _l’embarras des richesses_. Shall we seek the
Rome of religion, of history, or of art? Shall we make a tour of the
churches or the studios first? Or shall we go at once to the colossal
ruins, and bury ourselves in the annals of the old republic? All these
regions have been thoroughly explored, and there are guides, both
living and dead, to lead one through the divers cities existing within
the bosom of the whilom mistress of the world. The streets themselves
are a series of pictures, from the Via Condotti—where the most
finished masterpieces of antique jewellery are successfully imitated,
and where wealthy strangers crowd round the counters, eager to take
home keepsakes for less fortunate friends—to the Piazza Montanara,
where the handsome peasants from the country mingle with the stalwart
Frasteverini, who boast of being lineal descendants of the ancient
Romans. One thing which is very apt to strike any thoughtful observer
upon a first saunter through Rome (we speak of 1863) is the sovereignty
of religion in every department of life. Art is wholly moulded by it,
domestic life pervaded by it, municipal life simply founded on it.
Every monument of note is stamped with its impress, as the Pantheon;
every ruin is consecrated to its service, as the Coliseum. Every public
building bears on its walls the keys and tiara of the Papacy side by
side with the “S. P. Q. R.” of the city arms (_Senatus Populusque
Romanus_). Even the private galleries are under government protection,
and not one of the pictures can be sold without the leave of the
authorities. The very collections of classic statuary are the work of
successive ecclesiastical rulers. Education is essentially religious
(as it always is in any country whose ideal still remains civilized
and does not approximate to that of the irresponsible denizen of the
forests), and at the same time national, since every nation has here
its own representative college. The archæological discoveries in the
catacombs and at the Dominican Convent of San Clemente open a new
branch of research peculiar to Rome, while modern art instinctively
follows in the same religious groove, and spends itself chiefly on the
imitation of Christian mosaics, the manufacture of costly articles of
devotion, such as reliquaries, crucifixes, rosaries, and the rivalry of
both foreign and native artists to invent new æsthetical expositions
of religious truth, new embodiments of religious symbols. From the
street-shrines which we have passed to the studios of Christian artists
and the examination of ancient Christian art there is, therefore, less
distance than one would think. The same idea has created them, and
the faith which keeps the lamp alight and inspires the _pifferaro’s_
tribute is the same that guides the chisel of the sculptor and the
brush of the painter. It is certainly a remarkable fact that in Rome
there is perhaps less landscape-painting than in many other schools and
centres of art, and that, too, in a country so picturesque, so full
of that pathetic southern beauty of luminous atmosphere and intense
coloring. The human element, and, above all, the religious, seems, as
by divine right, to blot out every other in this mystic capital, not
of the world alone, but of the whole realm of intellect. Classicism
itself, the child of the soil, seems an alien growth here, and one
wanders through miles of antique statuary as one would through some
gigantic collection of exotics in a northern clime, expecting every
moment to return to a different and more normal atmosphere. So it is
not to be wondered at, when exploring the field of modern art, that
so many of those wild-looking Germans, with long, fair hair and bushy
beards, extravagance of costume, and universal abundance of the plaid
shawl serving as an overcoat, should be engaged on S. Jeromes or S.
Catherines rather than on Apollos or Minervas.
The Italians are best represented among the sculptors, and Tenerani,
Giacometti, and Benzoni have made their religious statuary famous
through the Christian world. Discarding the influence of the
Renaissance, they have returned to the austere ideal so well understood
by Canova and exemplified in his figures of Justice and Mercy on the
tomb of Clement XIV. in S. Peter’s—the ideal which Michael Angelo
forsook when he introduced “muscular Christianity” into art. Tenerani’s
“Angel of Judgment,” intended for the tomb of a Prussian princess, is
a magnificent conception. Colossal in size, and divinely impassible
in expression, this grand figure stands as if in the last dread pause
before the call, holding uplifted in his mighty hand the trumpet
that is to awaken the dead. It is impossible to give an adequate
impression of this statue, so majestic and so simple, with its massive
drapery falling straight to the feet, not tortured with a thousand
undignified wrappings, nor flying like a stiffly frozen scarf around
the bared limbs, as it does on the wretched angels whom Bernini has
perched upon the bridge opposite the Mole of Adrian. The two lifelike
statues of Christ and his betrayer, Judas, which are placed at the
foot of the Scala Santa, one of the most venerated shrines of Rome,
are also Tenerani’s handiwork. Judas clutches a bag of money in his
left hand, which he tries to hide behind his back, while his bent body
and the low animal cunning in his look betray the sordid eagerness
that prompts him. Opposite this statue is that of our Saviour, whose
attitude, full of dignity and repose, is more that of a lenient judge
than of an entrapped victim. As far as marble can be god-like, this
figure borrows something of the lofty characteristics of its original;
and it is to be noticed that sculpture can more easily than painting
attain such quasi-perfection. We have all been repeatedly struck by the
effeminacy of almost every representation of our Lord, but this danger
is much diminished in marble, the material itself being more or less
incapable of sensuous interpretation. This is very evident in entirely
or partially undraped figures, which are redeemed from the alluring
repulsiveness of the same subjects on canvas by a certain firmness
of outline and breadth of contour suggestive of strength rather than
tenderness, dignity rather than charm.
One very beautiful group in marble was the “Taking down from the
Cross,” which in 1863 was still in the _atelier_ of a German sculptor,
whose name we have forgotten. The realistic details, such as the
nails still embedded in the sacred hands of the Redeemer, the crown
of thorns, the tears of the Magdalen who is embracing his feet,
were marvellously and yet not painfully correct, while the whole
expression of the artistically grouped figures was touchingly
Christian. Benzoni’s Eve was another well-known masterpiece, of which
many fac-similes by the sculptor himself were constantly sold to rich
English or Russian patrons; but its chief merit was the wonderful hair,
upon which the “mother of all the living” half sits, and which is
chiselled with minute accuracy. The statue might be that of a beautiful
bather or a grandly moulded Venus, save for the symbolic serpent twined
around the stump of the tree on which she leans.
Gibson, the English sculptor, was the apostle of the revived art of
tinting statues. He contended that such was the custom of the ancients,
and brought forward many proofs in favor of his assertion, notably a
statue of Augustus discovered at the baths of Livia during our stay in
Rome, and which bore marks of gilding and vermilion on the fringes of
its drapery. Gibson’s studio was a pagan temple, the representative of
classic naturalism, very beautiful, but equally soulless. His tinted
Venus was the marvel of the London Exhibition of 1862, and now he
was at work giving the finishing touch to a very lovely tinted Hebe.
The flesh was skilfully tinged to a faint pink hue, so faint that it
suggested ivory with a glow upon it rather than actual flesh; and
here and there, for instance, round the short kirtle and on the band
around the forehead, ran a pencil-line of gold in delicate tracery.
The artist, gray and withered, and pacing among his statues in a loose
sort of _déshabillé_, reminded one of the ancient Greek philosophers
discoursing on their favorite theories. He was altogether a cultivated
and charming pagan, and had conceptions of the Greek myths which
would have delighted Phidias. He explained his Bacchus to us most
enthusiastically, dwelling on the mistake often made of delineating him
as the bloated god of intemperance and coarse indulgence. “I have made
him,” he said, pointing to his statue, crowned with vine-leaves, “not
less beautiful than Apollo; for he was the god of youth and pleasure,
of dance and song, and not the type of brutal revelry some people would
have us believe. He left that to Silenus.” This statue was not tinted.
Whether the ancients did or did not as a rule use color as an adjunct
of sculpture, or whether, if they did, it was only in the degenerate
stage of art, we cannot pretend to say; but, to our mind, such a
practice seriously detracts from the severe beauty of statuary. It
seems a pandering to passion, a compromise to allure the imagination,
and even a confession of weakness on the part of the artist.
Story, the American sculptor, was and is by far the ablest
representative of secular art in Rome. His two magnificent statues of
Cleopatra and the Libyan Sibyl were the gems of the “Roman Court” in
the London Exhibition of 1862. The former (or a _replica_ of it) is
in Mr. Johnston’s gallery of modern pictures in New York. Story has
given his heroine something of the Egyptian type, thereby forsaking
the arbitrary rule that decreed the Greek type only to be admissible
in sculpture; and, if he has lost in mere physical beauty, he has
amply gained in power. In his Cleopatra, he has not given us the
voluptuous woman, but the captive queen, brooding over the fall of
her sovereignty, looking into futurity with gloomy apprehension; for
she sees her empire enslaved, her nationality wiped out, her dynasty
forgotten. We dare not pity her, for she is above such a tribute; we
cannot despise her, for we feel that contempt would not reach her. She
is here the tangible embodiment of a principle rather than the splendid
sinner of flesh and blood; and involuntarily we admire and reverence
her, and are silent before her imperial woe. The Libyan Sibyl is not
unlike the Cleopatra in general effect, and bears the same stamp of
loftiness of mind on the part of the artist.
Of Hoffman, a very different sculptor, and the adopted son of Overbeck,
we remember but one work, as he died between our first and second
visits to Rome, and our recollection of him dates, therefore, from
a somewhat childish period. This work was the bust of a Madonna,
in which seemed blended in some indescribable way the softness of
the painter’s art and the firmness of the sculptor’s. The head is
slightly bent forward, and the eyes look modestly down. Over the back
of the head falls a veil, and the brow is bound by a simple crown of
_fleur-de-lis_. The expression is radiant yet grave, and the artist has
ventured to use the help of gilding to embellish the veil and circlet.
But how different the effect from that produced by Gibson’s tinting!
The thread-like mediæval tracery that forms the half-inch border to the
veil, and the line of gold that just defines the contour of the crown,
have not the least disturbing effect in the harmony of the whole pure
composition. One would think that this was the head of the white-robed
Virgin in Beato Angelico’s fresco in the Convent of San Marco at
Florence, translated into marble.
Christian art in the department of painting is chiefly represented
by the new German school of Overbeck. The master himself, a worthy
follower of the religious painters of the XIVth and XVth centuries, was
quite a study. His enthusiastic explanations of his cartoons of the
Seven Sacraments, which were in his _atelier_ at the time we visited
him, were very impressive. His own appearance was singularly in harmony
with the tone of his works, and, by its dignified asceticism, could
not fail to remind one that to paint as he did is to pray. One of his
most beautiful productions is now at Munich—a half-length Madonna—in
whose draperies he has managed to combine the most richly varied tints,
all subdued to that velvety depth and mellowness which is so peculiar
to some of the old Pre-Raphaelite masters, and which always suggests
to our mind the tints seen in mediæval stained glass. The Christian
revival linked with his name has spread far and wide, and all over
England, Germany, and France are found memorials of its inspiration.
The nudities of the Renaissance, the anatomies of the school of Michael
Angelo, and the handsome, robust materialities of even the later manner
of Raphael were banished to the realm of secular art, and the revived
ideal of religious chivalry was no longer the muscular athlete, the
handsome peasant, or the graceful _odalisque_. Many disciples followed
the new artistic school, and one of these, Seitz, of whom we have had
personal knowledge, may well find a place here. Seitz had his studio
near the Piazza Barberini, and, when we went in a party to see him, he
was at work on a beautiful group of saints arrayed round the throne
of the Virgin and Child. It was a thoroughly characteristic picture,
designed according to the mediæval custom of representing the family
of the owner by their respective patron saints. It was destined for a
Gothic chapel in England, and has since been transferred there, having
been ordered by a connoisseur in religious art and ecclesiastical
archæology. The minuteness and accuracy of detail, such as are required
by the costumes of S. Charles Borromeo (cardinal), of S. Francis of
Sales, (bishop), and S. Ida (a Benedictine nun), are perfect, yet
without a trace of that pagan naturalism which, since the days of the
Medici, has uncrowned every ideal, and lowered even historical dignity
to the level of vulgar domesticity. The researches necessary to a
correct representation of such royal garments as are distinctive of
S. Constance, the daughter of the Emperor Constantine; S. Edith, the
royal Saxon abbess; S. Edward the Confessor, who holds in his hand a
model of his foundation, Westminster Abbey; and of S. Elizabeth of
Hungary, the queenly almsgiver, whose loaves of bread were turned to
wreaths of red roses as her husband was about to upbraid her for her
too lavish generosity, are also shown, by the success of these figures,
to have been deep and painstaking. S. Thomas of Canterbury, patron
of the chapel for which the altar-piece was intended, is also very
beautifully represented, the pallium and crozier faithfully copied,
while a knife, placed transversely in the interstices of the pastoral
staff, points out symbolically the manner of his heroic death. The
main figures, the Virgin and Child, are radiant with heavenly grace
as well as dignity, the tints of the former’s robe being exquisitely
delicate, almost transparent in their ethereal suggestiveness, while
the disposition of the folds is both grave and modest. The picture
is on a gold ground, and divided into three panels by XIIth century
_colonnettes_ of twisted gold, while the names of the saints are
inscribed in Lombardic characters on the breadth of the frame. Before
we take our leave of modern art, of which, of course, we do not pretend
to have given more than a very superficial summary, we must not forget
the restored mosaics in the Basilica of S. Paul. This is outside the
walls of Rome, and has been in continual process of rebuilding and
embellishment for over forty years. The great fire of 1822, which
destroyed the old Basilica, and swept away the carved cedar roof which
was one of its chief glories, only spared the apse containing some
valuable mosaics of the Theodosian period—an enthroned Christ, around
which was an inscription recounting how the Empress Galla Placidia and
Pope Leo the Great had finished the decorations of the church, and
several medallions purporting to represent the first twenty or thirty
popes. Among the renovating tasks to be undertaken, that of continuing
the series of Papal mosaics became one of the foremost. Those pontiffs
of whom some authentic likeness remained, whether in casts, busts,
medals, or on canvas, were represented according to these data; while,
for the earlier popes of whom no reliable memorial was left, tradition
and symbolism were appealed to. The artists took great pains in
collecting and arranging their models, the ecclesiastical authorities
gave them every help and encouragement in their power, and the result
was a series of new mosaic medallions running all round the nave above
the granite columns, hardly distinguishable from the IVth century work,
and in every respect true to the almost forgotten traditions of this
ancient branch of art.
Among other praiseworthy restorations of antique industry is the
establishment of Signor Castellani, a true artist and enthusiast, who
stands unrivalled in his application to the study of Etruscan and
Roman jewellery. Here may be seen wonderful and exact reproductions
of Roman _bullæ_, or golden ornaments, hung round the necks of youths
before they attained the age at which they assumed the _toga virilis_,
indicative of manhood and citizenship; _figulæ_, or brooches of gold,
wrought with the heads of lions or leopards, or chased with vine-leaf
patterns; plain, massive rings, armlets and golden waistbelts, delicate
crowns of golden myrtle leaves, hair-pins and ornaments (those with
which Roman ladies are said to have often struck their female slaves in
capricious anger), and various nondescript jewellery. Engrafting upon
these ornaments such later conceits as were appropriate, Castellani
produced rings and brooches bearing the Greek word _Αει_ (for ever)
in plain Etruscan letters, or the reversible words, _Amor_, _Roma_,
etc. Perhaps the most perfect objects of art were the necklaces, with
their little amphora-shaped pendants copied from those found in ancient
tombs, and which are now so well known. The granulated gold-work
used in many of the more solid pieces of jewellery is peculiar to
Castellani’s new antique style, and cost much time, research, and
patience to bring to the old standard, of which the results were also
for a long time the only recipes.
To return to Christian art and its early origin, we cannot do better
than go straight to the catacombs. Apart from their historical
interest, they have the additional merit of being the birthplace
of Christian symbolism. It should always be borne in mind that art
is a means, not an end. If it aims only at mere physical beauty,
it degrades itself to the level of a common trade. Its inspiration
should come from on high, and its object be to lift the soul from
vulgar to sublime thoughts. Thus began the art of the catacombs. It
was eminently symbolical, like the language of Christ himself in the
parables, and like the venerable traditions of the Old Testament.
We should detain our readers too long were we to propose anything
like an adequate examination of the various types found in the
catacombs. The good shepherd surrounded by his flock, symbolizing
the church; Moses striking the rock, symbolizing the grace of the
sacraments, particularly baptism; and Jonas saved from the whale,
and reposing under the miraculous gourd, typifying the resurrection
and life everlasting, are some of the most oft-repeated subjects.
The multiplication of the loaves and fishes also constantly recurs,
meaning the eucharistic sacrifice and sacrament, the sacrifice of the
Mass, and the sacrament of the body of the Lord under the appearance
of bread. The Deluge and Noe’s ark are frequently depicted, for the
sake of the symbol they contain—that of the church alone saving the
human race amid the general corruption of sin. The fish is a double
symbol, the five letters of the Greek word _Ιχθύς_ being the initials
of the following words: Jesus, Christ, Son (of) God, Saviour, which
form a complete confession of faith; and the animal itself, capable
of existing only in the water, typifying that by baptism alone does
the Christian soul live. Sometimes the fish is put for Christ himself;
as in two very ancient catacomb frescos, where it is seen in the one
swimming in the water, bearing a ship (the church) upon its back, and
in the other bearing a basket of bread, the type of the Holy Eucharist.
This symbol of the fish was so universally accepted, and became so
fixed in men’s minds, that it originated the shape of the episcopal
seal, which was and is still fashioned like a pointed oval or ogive.
In many frescos, a female figure is depicted with outstretched hands,
signifying, as some think, the church in prayer, or, as others say,
the Mother of God interceding for the church. Among the Christian
hieroglyphics, palms and crowns were frequent; a dove often represented
the spirit at peace in Christ (this was frequently the only epitaph
on a Christian’s tomb), and a peacock or a phœnix, immortality. Here
the recollections of paganism were suited to Christian doctrines,
and, like the converted temples, did duty in the service of truth. A
curious instance of this is seen in the frequent recurrence of the
myth of Orpheus depicted in the frescos of the catacombs, the Greek
shepherd with his lyre standing for Christ, who by the magic of his
doctrine and his grace tames the evil passions of man, as Orpheus tamed
the wild beasts of the forest. In the earlier frescos, we see traces
of the pure Greek models of ancient painting; the graceful draperies,
the delicate borders remind us of Pompeian art, but there is nothing
immodest, and the figures themselves are already of a graver and nobler
type. In the later paintings, the beauty of detail and ornamentation
grows less, but the grand ideal is yet more prominent. There is a
transition in art, but the indelible stamp of Christianity is already
impressed on the struggling types of a more perfect future. It was
fitting that Christianity should only use pagan civilization with
all its products as a pedestal—a noble basis, it is true, but still
only a pedestal—and should rear above it a structure wholly her own.
Thus from her inspiration rose a new architecture purely Christian;
new arts, such as stained glass-making; in literature, new languages
capable of more spiritual expressions. It is interesting to find
in Rome the tradition of Christian art so unbroken, and especially
to be able to compare the earliest efforts at a reverent and lucid
illustration of the truths of faith with the latest development of
the same sentiment in the new German pictures. From the catacombs and
San Clemente to the school of Overbeck the transition is natural, and
we find the same master-spirit guiding both pictorial expositions.
The seed that produced such painters as Gian Bellini, Fra Angelico,
Masaccio, Orcagna, Giotto, and Perugino was destined indeed to be
crushed for full four centuries, but what a glorious harvest has the
bruised grain yielded in this age! Of all the productions of the XIXth
century, none to our mind ever deserved its reputation one-quarter so
well as the Christian and Gothic revival, which is leading the human
mind back to the spirit of the early church.[204]
We do not speak of the much-frequented galleries of the Borghese,
Doria, or Corsini palaces, because every visitor to Rome knows them
as well as we do; nor of the Stanza of Raphael in the Vatican—which
we studied perhaps less than we ought—because we should probably
offend many established predilections by so doing. The pictures most
often under our eyes were those in the Sistine chapel and in S.
Peter’s, and of the former a most painful impression remains upon
our mind. The Christian ideal of art is there utterly violated by
a painter who, as a man, was a most fervent and austere Christian.
The taint of the Renaissance was upon Michael Angelo when he gave
us an athlete enthroned, in the place of Christ the Judge; and we
are happy to reflect that his spiritual conception of divine majesty
was far different from his artistic conception. The _pictures_ in S.
Peter’s, except one, are all mosaics, and a most marvellous triumph
of artistic illusion. Domenichino’s Communion of S. Jerome especially
is so accurately copied in this perplexing material that any one not
forewarned will never dream that he is looking on anything but canvas.
The single exception is the picture opposite the Porta Santa Marta, and
represents the judgment that befell Ananias and Sapphira.
Of all monuments of early Christianity, whose interest is joined with
that of art, none stands more conspicuous than the church of San
Clemente, served by the Irish Dominicans, and under English protection.
The discovery of the subterranean church and frescos, dating from the
days of S. Clement, the _third_ successor of S. Peter, was an era in
the history of ecclesiastical archæology. Believed to have been the
site of S. Clement’s own dwelling, and to have originated in an oratory
established there by himself, the Basilica of S. Clement is of a high
antiquity. There are proofs of its existence in 417, when Pope Zosimus
chose it as the scene of his condemnation of the Pelagian heresy. To
this date or thereabouts may be referred a certain Byzantine Madonna
in fresco; and the learned and enthusiastic F. Mullooly has built upon
this apparent coincidence a very beautiful and possibly correct theory.
“The very difference,” he says, “between the heads of S. Catherine and
S. Euphemia, with hair flowing down from their jewelled crowns—_i.e._
human nature decked with the jewels of virginity and martyrdom—and
the countenance of Our Lady, enshrined in a mass of ornaments, without
a single lock appearing—_i.e._ human nature totally transformed by
grace—indicates the limner’s scope.” And again: “_All_ the gifts of
grace are signified by the necklace, breastplate, and the immense
jewelled head-dress, with its triple crown, borne by Our Lady.” We
hear of S. Clement’s Basilica again in 600, of its being restored in
795, and, a century later (855), of its being in “good order.” It is
not accurately known whether it was destroyed by the earthquake of 896
or in the wars of Robert Guiscard and Pope Gregory VII. in 1084. At
any rate, it disappears from history after this last convulsion, and
not until 1857 was its existence proved by F. Mullooly’s successful
excavations. He has published a book upon the subject, conspicuous for
enthusiasm and archæological accuracy. Many portions of the Basilica
were found in almost perfect preservation, the columns especially
being of great beauty, variety, and costliness, both as to material
and workmanship. But the frescos are the most important part of the
silent testimony to Christian truth borne by this unearthed antiquity
dating almost from the apostolic age. One in particular we commend
to the notice of such advanced Anglicans as proclaim the “Roman”
church of to-day to be other than the apostolic church of the first
four centuries. It represents S. Clement celebrating Mass at a small,
square altar. We quote F. Mullooly’s literal description: “The central
compartment represents the interior of a church, from the arches of
which are suspended _seven_ lamps, symbolizing the seven gifts of the
Holy Ghost. That over the altar is circular in form,[205] much larger
than the other six, and contains _seven_ lights, probably typical of
the seven gifts of the same Holy Spirit. Anastasius the librarian, who
lived in the IXth century, makes mention of this form of lamp, and
calls it a _pharum cum corona_—a lighthouse with a crown—a crown from
its form, a lighthouse from the brilliancy of the light it emitted.”
He also says that it was in common use in all the Christian churches.
S. Clement, in his pontifical robes (_i.e._ a chasuble, an alb, etc.,
and more particularly a _pallium_), is officiating at the altar, over
which his name, _S. Clemens, Papa_—Pope S. Clement—is written in the
form of a cross. He has the maniple between the thumb and forefinger
of the left hand. The altar is covered with a plain white cloth, and
on it are the missal, the chalice, and paten. The missal is open, and
on one page of it are the words, _Dominus vobiscum_ (“The Lord be with
you”), which the saint is pronouncing, his arms extended, as Catholic
priests do even to this day when celebrating Mass. On the other page
are the words, _Pax Domini sit semper vobiscum_ (“The peace of the
Lord be ever with you”). These two phrases were introduced into the
liturgy of the church by S. Clement himself, and are still retained.
On the right of the saint are his ministers—namely, two bishops with
croziers in their left hands, a deacon, and a subdeacon. They all have
the circular tonsure (the distinguishing mark of the Latin rite),
and the pope, in addition to the tonsure, has the nimbus, or glory,
the symbol of sanctity.[206] In the neighboring fresco of the life
and death of S. Alexius, the Pope, S. Boniface, is depicted again in
similar pontifical garments, and is attended by two cross-bearers.
Here, too, are the hanging lamps, four in number; the clerics, to the
number of twenty, all wear the circular tonsure, and the pope has on
his head a conical white mitre. It is noticeable in these early frescos
that the shape of the lamps, chalice, crosses, and the fashion of the
vestments, chasuble, alb, altar-cloth, and mitre, are exactly such as
are now reproduced in the English establishments of Hardman & Co., and
the Browns, of Manchester and Birmingham—the style now called Gothic.
F. Mullooly notices the lavishness of these mural decorations in these
significant words: “They appear to have been part of a series painted
about the same time; and, when the colors were fresh, the Basilica
must have presented a brilliant appearance very different from that
Puritanical baldness which some suppose, but very falsely, to have
been the _undefiled condition_ of church walls in the _early ages_.”
A fuller investigation would reveal many interesting facts going far
to prove, by human means alone, the identity of the church of Clement
and that of Pius IX.; and, indeed, it is chiefly this that strikes all
candid English-speaking visitors to the subterranean church. In the
late Basilica built over the ruins of this early one are many objects
of artistic interest, notably the chapel of S. Catherine of Alexandria,
with her life painted in a series of frescos on the walls, and the
curious marble enclosure, four feet in height, round the choir, with
the two _ambones_, or marble desks, for the reading of the Gospel and
the Epistle. These, together with the enclosure, which is raised a
step or two above the level of the nave, are beautifully sculptured;
and already, in these unusual types of birds, beasts, and flowers, we
trace that departure from the tradition of the monotonous acanthus-leaf
which was to blossom forth into such wonders at the Cathedrals of
Cologne, Chartres, York, and Burgos. The frescos in S. Catherine’s
chapel it would take too long to describe; a medallion head of the
saint is especially noticeable for its great purity of outline and
expression, and the heavenly suggestiveness which hallows and rarefies
its human beauty. In a cursory sketch such as this, it is impossible
to do justice to a subject so vast as Roman art, and we have therefore
embodied in it but a few of our personal recollections. The deepest
impressions, however, can never be told in words. No one who has
visited Rome can ever succeed in fully expressing all his sentiments;
there are undefinable sensations that will assert themselves, though
the visitor should strive to the utmost to resist and stifle them;
there are vivid influences which are felt by the infidel, the Puritan,
and the Catholic alike, though the first will not acknowledge them, and
the second has too much human respect to put them into tangible shape;
still, they exist none the less strongly and may bear fruit when least
expected.
Rome is too much of a landmark in the tale of any traveller’s life to
be passed over in silence, and one might say of its charm and influence
what Rousseau caused to be graven on the pedestal of a statue of Eros
set up in his grounds near Geneva:
“Passant, adore; voici ton maître;
Il l’est, le fut, ou le doit être.”
(“Passing, adore; behold thy master.
He is, he was, or he ought to be.”)
TO BE FORGIVEN.
I CALL thee “love”—“my sweet, my dearest love,”
Nor feel it bold, nor fear it a deceit:
Yet I forget not that, in realms above,
The thrones of Seraphs are beneath thy feet.
If Queen of angels thou, of hearts no less:
And so of mine—a poet’s, which must needs
Adore to all melodious excess
What cannot sate the rapture that it feeds.
And then thou art my Mother: God’s, yet mine!
Of mothers, as of virgins, first and best;
And I as tenderly, intimately thine
As He, my Brother, carried at the breast.
My Mother! ‘Tis enough. If mine the right
To call thee this, much more to muse and sigh
All other honeyed names. A slave, I _might_—
A son, I _must_. And both of these am I.
TRAVELLERS AND TRAVELLING.
CONCLUDED.
ANOTHER shrine most welcome to all who have made a retreat in a
house of the Jesuits is the grotto of Manresa. I went to Spain to
visit this holy spot. I was enchanted with the wondrous appearance
of Montserrat, the most unique mountain, perhaps, on the globe. It
looks like some enormous temple or Valhalla built by the Scandinavians
in honor of their gods. Picture to yourself a high table-land, and
imagine this surmounted by the Giant’s Causeway (wherewith doubtless
you are familiar from the geography plates), and this again crowned by
a multitude of icebergs or by colossal models of the Milan Cathedral,
all forming a structure four thousand feet in height and some miles
in extent, situated in a beautiful country of rounded hills—the
Switzerland of Spain—which make the great mountain more singular and
imposing by the contrast. You may thus form an idea of Montserrat,
which the pious Catalonians say was thus rent by the thunderbolts of
God at the Crucifixion. A famous shrine of the Blessed Virgin lies
far up the mount; thirteen hermitages formerly existed, but were
destroyed by the French revolutionists. To the shrine of Mary the
converted Knight of Loyola repaired for his general confession, and
then, retiring to an open cavern in the side of a rocky hill, and
having the sublime mountain in view, he entered on the famous retreat
which resulted in that great work, the _Spiritual Exercises_. It was
delightful to say Mass in that cavern, preserved in its original narrow
nakedness, and the Mass served by a gentleman from New Granada, himself
a pilgrim to this holy place; to see the same shelf of rock on which
was written that celebrated book praised by so many popes, and which
worked such wonders in the perfecting of soldiers in the spiritual
warfare. But the House of Retreat, which still stands on the roof of
that rocky cavern, was changed from its original purpose, and, having
for a while been used as a hospital, lies now, since the expulsion
of the Jesuits, in empty desolation; its altar literally stripped,
its chapel in ruins, its library scattered, its corridors open to the
elements. Here, at the shrine to which all the novices of the order in
the noble church of Spain used to come on foot to refresh their spirit
at the Mount of God, where Ignatius had received a message from on
high, no one now remains but a lay brother in secular dress, who is
allowed, by connivance of the police, to sweep the church and care for
the chapels. Two other churches of the society and their colleges have
now no trace of their possession; and of two hundred Jesuits who were
formerly here, only three priests and two lay brethren are left, living
on alms, and residing in a more wretched lane than could be found in
New York.
No Jesuit, Dominican, Franciscan, or other religious, can to-day wear
the dress of his order. Their property was confiscated, their libraries
broken up; they are forbidden to live in community or receive novices,
and no compensation is given them for the means of living whereof they
were deprived. Such is a picture of religious life in that once most
noble country, which controlled the empire of the world when she was
most devoted to the church. In conversing with a young ecclesiastic,
who guided me to the mean dwelling of the Jesuits, up three pairs
of dark stairs, he said: “Every one notices the decay of faith and
increasing corruption of morals, and all acknowledge that the church
militant is practically weak when deprived of the services of her
religious orders.” I might relate visits to other places, and describe
other peoples—tell you of the Cathedral at Burgos, the bearishness of
some people I met, the politeness characteristic of others, the beauty
of Switzerland, the fresh simplicity of the Tyrol, the peculiar charm
of Venice, the prison of SS. Peter and Paul at Rome, the Propaganda
College, and so on endlessly; but I have only desired to illustrate
a little the pleasure of travel, not to describe everything, which
were impossible. So great is the attraction of travelling that a whole
people, the gypsies, spend their lives in constant roaming over the
world; but their condition, like that of certain classes in civilized
communities, shows abundantly that continual wandering is conducive to
advancement neither in morals, learning, nor real happiness.
Travellers for health, business, or pleasure are not excluded from
the advantages sought by those who travel expressly in pursuit of
knowledge. If one but keeps his head cool and his temper quiet, he
cannot but pick up a great deal of useful information during his
sojourn abroad. Indeed, so true is this that a trip abroad has always
been considered the necessary finish to a young man’s education; and I
would go so far as to say that no one can pretend to the appellative
of educated, in its best sense, unless he has travelled, or at least
mingled with the people and observed the institutions of other nations.
“The proper study of mankind is man”; and it is excellence in the
knowledge of mankind, after the knowledge of God and of self, that
constitutes learning. It is not mathematics alone, nor yet languages,
nor skill in trades nor navigation: it is to know our condition, and
capacity, and progress, and that of other countries; to know what in
law and government is most conducive to the social happiness, not
simply the material advancement; to the eternal weal, not the temporal
aggrandizement only of our race.
The desire of increasing in knowledge, as well as the pleasure the sage
finds in the pursuit of wisdom, doubtless it was that sent our great
Secretary, Seward, in his white old age, on a tour of the whole world.
It was this that made those collectors of learned lore, Anacharsis and
Herodotus, leave their polished home-circles, and travel amongst other
peoples. It is this that makes the heirs of princely houses set out on
the tour of Europe and America, and even Asia, on the completion of
their college course, that they may understand their position amongst
the nations. It is this that brings the acute and ambitious Japanese
across the globe in search of what is desirable in our products; that
they may see the truth and value of institutions different from their
own.
In order to attain the object of such a journey, we must observe
certain conditions. In the first place, we should, if possible, know
some of the languages of the countries through which we intend to pass,
or at least some which will most likely be understood therein; such
as, for instance, the French in Italy, Germany, etc., the Italian in
Spain, Greece, and Egypt. We are otherwise necessitated to depend on
the mediation of a class often found faithless in its duty of exact
interpretation. The interpreter, or _cicerone_, is very likely to
digest the information he obtains or to qualify that which he imparts
according to the supposed capacity or prejudice of his employer; and,
for fear of offending one from whom he expects more money, he will
sometimes tell an acceptable lie rather than an unwelcome truth. Most
unlucky is he who is thus fed with the sweet poison of falsehood rather
than the wholesome plainness of truth. What can he gain by travel?
An Irish bishop, standing before the picture of the martyrdom of SS.
Processus and Martinianus in the Vatican, heard a young lady behind
ask her father what was the subject of the painting. “That’s the
Inquisition, my dear; they are torturing people in the Inquisition.”
He looked like a man who should know how to read, and the name of the
picture was on the frame under it; but it is quite possible that his
information came from a _cicerone_, as they have been known to give it
just as false and malicious.
In the second place, the traveller must bear in mind that his own
nation does not monopolize the goodness or common sense of the world,
and that, however unintelligible or absurd the customs of other
countries may appear to him, the presumption is in their favor;
hence, he must never ridicule anything, never judge rashly, but wait
till his ignorance is removed and his little experience enlarged to
the knowledge of many excellent things that he dreamt not of before,
remembering that, while it is pardonable in children and peculiar to
boors to laugh at a strange dress or a foreign custom, it is unworthy
of an educated person. We should never be ashamed to learn, nor
therefore to ask questions. Benjamin Franklin (or Dr. Johnson) said it
was by this means he gained so much information. A doctor should be no
more ashamed to ask a farmer about potatoes than he to ask him about
pills. Every man should be supposed to know his own trade better than
others not of it. It is the folly of supposing themselves all-wise and
others know-nothings, that keeps many men bigoted and ignorant.
Finally, a great secret for acquiring knowledge of strange peoples and
understanding their ways is contained in that advice to “put yourself
in their place.” We will find that, if we were in their place, we would
do just the same, or perhaps would not have done so well as we find
them doing, and it will prevent us forming very wrong impressions of
a government or a people. For instance, when travelling in France,
we were subjected to some inconvenience by the police regulations,
and were tempted to think these French a narrow-minded, suspicious,
timid people, until some one reminded the rest of the surveillance our
government had felt itself constrained to exercise on the line of the
Potomac, the suspension of the Habeas Corpus, and the imprisonment of
editors under our own flag; and we were persuaded that France was also
excusable, filled as she was with the adherents of three contending
political parties, and her territory in part occupied by a conqueror.
When we notice something apparently inconvenient, we must wait and see
what is the corresponding advantage. Thus, one may dislike the brick
and marble floors of Italy. Let him wait till summer, and he will like
them; or let him reflect on the immunity from conflagrations which is
due to them, and then say if the adoption of this flooring instead of
wood is not a cheap price to pay for safety. “During a residence of
thirty-five years in Florence, I know not a single house to have been
burnt.” This is what Hiram Powers, the sculptor, testifies. In like
manner, Dickens was not very much taken with the narrow streets and
peculiar build of Genoa the Superb, yet he adds: “I little thought that
in one year I would love the very stones of the streets of Genoa.” When
he reached Switzerland on his return home, he was no doubt pleased with
the neatness of the people, etc.; but still ... “the beautiful Italian
manners, the sweet language, the quick recognition of a pleasant look
or cheerful word, the captivating expression of a desire to oblige in
everything, are left behind the Alps. Remembering them, I sighed for
the dirt again, the brick floors, bare walls, unplastered ceilings, and
broken windows.”
One of the great advantages we Americans, just as others, gain
by travelling is improvement in self-knowledge, which is the
foundation-stone of wisdom—beginning to look at ourselves as it were
from a distance, and to see ourselves as we are seen by others. It is
the great profit of this that made the poet exclaim:
“Oh! wad some power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
And foolish notion.”
When we compare the institutions of foreign lands and their results
with our own, we learn a juster appreciation of each, and to remedy
the defects of our own, if need be. On the one hand, the nothingness
of the individual in many parts of Continental Europe, and the
“everythingness” of the state, is very intolerable. The way, too,
the police stare at every one in France, as if you had a suspicious
look, while the people side with the officer, not apparently from love
of the law, but out of fear, just as all the school-boys quake when
one is subjected to the pedagogue’s scrutiny. I was in France during
Napoleon’s despotism, and now under the republic, and it seemed to me
that to the people it was all one; they fear whoever is in power. On
landing at Calais, our names were peremptorily demanded, as if the
nation feared the entrance of some certain individuals who were only
known to it by name. I guess such persons would hardly give their names
in such a case. In Ireland, so little respect is had for the people
that they are not trusted with arms; but, to keep a gun, one must
have a written license from the agents of the inexorable government.
Then, in most of those countries, the huge barracks of the standing
armies, swallowing up hundreds of thousands of strong, healthy youth,
and corrupting the morals of the district wherein they are stationed,
seemed to insult the people, and to say: “If you don’t be quiet, we’ll
cut you to pieces.” And then again their officers strut along in
idleness, or kill time by balls, parties, and cricket-playing, while
the masses are sweating to support them, or dying in the poor-houses,
worn out in the struggle for existence. Of course, there is some
palliation for this. The governments of Europe are afraid of each
other, and many of them are afraid of their people, too. God grant that
we may never fear a foreign foe, or, what is worse, have a government
or laws which the people do not love! But if it is insulting to our
manhood to be forbidden to keep arms, it is certainly wrong for us to
allow every ruffian to have his loaded revolver always in his pocket.
It is worse to have a statute forbidding the carriage of concealed
weapons, and not to enforce it.
From the exactness wherewith the public honor is guarded and the
criminal laws administered in England—one of those circumstances which
make her paper pass as gold in any part of the world—we may learn
to correct some of our insane, suicidal looseness in these respects
at home, which is destroying all security for life and property, and
making us a by-word among the nations. When we see the learning,
maturity, and integrity required for the judgeship in other lands,
we begin to see how wrong it is to render competition for this high
station subject to the bribery of low politicians, whereby, as we all
know, men who should be punished as criminals are sometimes found
seated on the bench. O my friends! if you but knew what ridicule and
contempt for democratic institutions some of these things cause in
Europe! It is for this that many excellent persons look with horror on
their approach, and cannot appreciate their worth or beauty when they
behold these, howsoever accidental, results of their working. Often had
we to try and correct unfavorable impressions arising from the fact of
known swindlers being allowed to flourish amongst us, and to ruin our
public credit by their gambling speculations or bribery; and when one
of them is, out of private and lawless revenge, murdered by another,
how uncertain it is whether the criminal shall be hanged or restored
to society! When they see how we assemble to hear lectures from women
divorced from their husbands, and shamelessly living with a paramour,
while professing Christian ministers bless such a union, associated
though it be with adultery and murder, is it a wonder that Europeans
should not increase in their respect for democracy? But the American
abroad rouses from the lethargy which the commonness of these things
throws over him at home; and to see the disorder as others see it is
the first step toward reform. God grant it come not too late!
Until one goes abroad, he is apt to imagine that no country enjoys
as much liberty in any sense as our own, and that, how objectionable
soever some of our practices may appear, still the corresponding
ones in Europe must be intolerably more so. How surprised we are,
for instance, when, having encountered the gentlemanly custom-house
regulations of England, France, and other nations, the politeness of
whose officers is often greater than you often meet with here even
in persons who expect to gain by your visit, we return home, and are
confronted with the hostile demonstrations of our New York institution!
At Liverpool, the officer approaches, and, with a single glance at
your appearance, frequently puts the chalk cross on your baggage; or
gently asks if you have anything dutiable, and takes your word for an
answer; or, at most, slightly examines your baggage, and almost begs
pardon for the trouble he is giving. In France likewise, only that you
are asked to open your valise, “if you please,” and thanked afterwards.
How different in our supposed free atmosphere! Every traveller, citizen
or alien, is obliged to sign a statement, liable to be confirmed with
an oath, to the effect that he carries nothing dutiable, not even a
present for his wife or sister; and then his baggage is examined as if
he had made no declaration at all. If the examination is to follow,
the oath is unnecessary and therefore sinful. If the oath is accepted
as true testimony, is it not insulting to examine, as if it were not
believed, or as if the government wished to detect people in perjury.
I read the experience of a priest in a Holland custom-house, where the
officer insultingly took a crucifix—an image of the crucified Son of
God!—out of the valise, and, holding it on high, asked him what it
was! In Alexandria of Egypt, they examined his person, pocket, and
sounded his stomach, so that he cried out: “What! Is it contraband to
have a stomach? Is there any particular size fixed for it? Are there
any duties to be paid on it?” At least there was no tampering with an
oath in these cases. Such excesses are blamable anywhere, but they are
intolerable in a republic.
Another contrast unfavorable to us is the independence of the
traveller, at least in this regard: in Continental Europe, no man has
to stand even in an omnibus; while here, not only in the street-cars,
where it may be explained, but often on the cars of some of our
principal railroads, you must stand in travelling. The lawful number
of places is marked in Europe, and the people behave as if they were
what we claim to be—“individual sovereigns”; if one man is without
a seat, the company must either find him one or put on an extra car.
Far different from us, who seem to be the slaves of monopoly, or
“dead-heads” under a compliment, so that we dare not open our mouths.
When we see how the people of Europe enjoy life, and lengthen their
days, and increase their innocent pleasures by moderation in seeking
after wealth, by observing occasional holidays, by popular amusements,
foot and boatracing, coursing, holding cricket-matches open to the
public (free of charge, just as the rest of the sports in Great
Britain), we begin to feel how absurd it is for us to be burning out
our brains at forty years of age, to break down our bodies by excessive
labor, heaping up riches which we thus inhibit ourselves from enjoying,
to rush through our work as if we were laying up capital for a thousand
years, instead of for ten, twenty, or thirty. By experience of all
these things we find that we have much to learn and to improve; and
while, on the one hand, we feel our own advantages, we are convinced,
on the other, that it was a very silly saying, that of the schoolboy:
“That no one should stay in Europe now, since it is so easy to come to
America.”
The non-Catholic is disabused of his prejudices by going abroad and
finding Catholic institutions so different from what he had been led
by his training to expect; and their journey to Rome in particular
used formerly to lead many an educated person to the truth. An English
lady of high rank and great repute in her day said to Cardinal
Pacca, the celebrated minister of Pius VII., “There is one thing in
your system which I cannot possibly get over, it is so cruel and
shocking.” “What is it that so excites your ladyship’s indignation?”
“Your Inquisition. I have been told all kinds of terrible things
about it—its punishments, its tortures, and, in fact, all kinds of
abominations.” The cardinal endeavored to remove from the lady’s mind
the absurd notions which fiction and calumny had associated with the
very harmless institution of modern times; but his success was not
altogether complete. “Well,” said he, “would your ladyship wish to see
the head of this dreaded tribunal?” “Above all things; and I should be
most grateful to you for affording me the opportunity.” “Then you had
better come here on such an evening (which he named), and you shall see
this tremendous personage, and you can then judge of the institution
from its chief.” The lady was true to her appointment, all anxiety for
her promised interview with the grand inquisitor. The cardinal, who was
alone at the time of her arrival, received his visitor with his usual
courtly manner, and engaged her in conversation on the various matters
of the day. The lady soon became _distrait_, and at length said: “Your
eminence will pardon me, but you led me to expect that you were to
gratify a woman’s curiosity.” “How was that, my lady?” “Why, don’t you
remember you assured me I was to see the Grand Inquisitor of the Holy
Office?” “Certainly, and you have seen him,” the cardinal said, in the
quietest possible manner. “Seen him!” exclaimed the lady, looking round
the apartment. “I see no one but yourself, cardinal.” “Quite true, my
child; I did promise you that you should meet the head of the tribunal
of which you have been told such wonderful tales; and I have kept my
word, for in me you behold your grand inquisitor! From what you know
of him, you may judge of the institution.” “You, cardinal—you the
inquisitor! Well, I am surprised!” Her ladyship might have added: “And
converted, too,” which she was.
The Catholic is confirmed in his faith when he witnesses the piety
of Ireland and Belgium; sees the wealth, position, and learning of
the children of the church in other nations. When he visits the
chapter-house in the Abbey of Westminster, where, under the wings of
the church, the House of Commons long held its sessions, the testimony
of its mute walls does more to convince him of the stand of the church
in regard to free institutions than all that has been written on the
subject. When he beholds, in the famous College of the Propaganda,
students of every color, tongue, and clime, united in prayer and study,
preparing to preach the one same faith in every land, he realizes
what he had always held by faith—the Catholicity of the church—and
he understands and feels what some one has expressed: “Elsewhere we
believe, but in Rome we see.” Even from the practice of heretics he
takes a lesson of attachment to his church; and when he sees how
Protestants in Ireland, to avoid the contact with Catholics which they
consider dangerous to their belief, support schools of their own all
the while they are taxed for the national education, he feels still
more the wisdom of the Catholic prelates in condemning mixed education.
The public man of our country, the member of the legislature, the
priest, finds much to learn in the customs which centuries have
sanctioned; and thus the experience of each supplies the want of this
important and all-testing article at home. He sees by the condition
of Switzerland, Bavaria, the south and west of France, etc., that
people are just as prosperous, as happy and healthy, without the
machines and various inventions on which we are apt to pride ourselves;
while his visit to English manufacturing towns will make him slow
to place much trust in institutions which have generated so much
mental weakness and bodily disease; have tended so much to destroy
the liberty and independence of the people by eliminating the private
tradesman and creating vast tyrannous monopolies; and have, by their
very circumstances and discipline, occasioned such an increase of
immorality in populations heretofore uncorrupted. Having observed them
in their homes, he understands better the circumstances and motives
which influence men of different nationality and religion, and is
enabled to form a more correct judgment of our adopted citizens, no
matter from what land. When he sees the misery of the Irish people
at home—a consequence of English misrule—he can better understand
why they take refuge in the delusive cup, deprived as they are by
their poverty of the commonest conveniences and much more of the
purer pleasures of life; nay, he is even astonished to find that,
with the unspeakable wretchedness of the people, they are so honest
that, in the maritime city of Cork, the doors are often scarce more
than latched; and so wanting in cool, calculating malice that, with
all the strictness of the English, and with judges like Keogh, it is
forty years since a man has been found guilty of wilful murder in that
handsome town. Even the agrarian outrages are mitigated to our view
when we consider that they partake of the “wild justice of revenge,”
and the political disturbances have their spring of action in one of
the noblest aspirations of the human soul. He is even disposed to
pity rather than condemn or despise the Irish when they here become
the tools of infamous politicians; reflecting how easily explained
this is in the case of country people, such as most of them are (not
one in five of whom ever voted before or entered a town except on a
fair day), suddenly exalted to the comparative wealth of the American
laborer, to the lordly exercise of political rights, and exposed to
the new and captivating influences of a great capital. But when the
American traveller meets the city people of Ireland, and learns to
respect their justice, intelligence, and urbanity; when he sees what
a dutiful, sober, conscientious man the Irish peasant can be, as
exemplified in the constabulary, of whom I always heard their priests
and all travellers speak in the highest terms, he will look kindly on
the faults of the emigrant, in the sure expectation that, when his
novitiate is passed, he will stand in the first rank of the citizens of
the republic.
It will be a pleasure for me, and I trust may not be unacceptable to
the reader, if I digress slightly here as I touch on this subject of
the Irish people. Having Irish blood in my own veins, I naturally had a
great sympathy with the country, especially after hearing the voice of
Catholic Ireland crying in our American wilderness so eloquently, and
was delighted when, on the 21st of June, her shores rose from the sea
in all the charm of sunlight, balmy and verdant freshness, like Venus
from the deep. From four in the morning, we had that long-desired land
in view, and all day long our eyes feasted on its charms, as we stopped
to land passengers and buy fresh meat, entertained by the beautiful
Cove of Cork and the magic shores adjacent; and, when the full moon
mirrored her beauty in the calm Atlantic, we enjoyed the spectacle at
midnight of departing light in the west and the first faint streaks of
day in the east. It was such a day and such a night as one might well
go three thousand miles to enjoy. I do not wish to speak of the scenery
of the country; that is well enough known. I only desire to testify to
my experience of the people.
Nearly six months we dwelt in the fair city of Cork, one of the most
beautifully situated I ever beheld and I never by any accident
heard profane or obscene language in this town of ninety thousand
inhabitants. Who could walk New York for a week, and relate such an
experience? I was edified by the venerable presence of the faith in
this people, as fresh and strong as ever to-day. You might compare
it to a flourishing young oak that springs out from the body of an
old, and furrowed, and blasted trunk, itself as beauteous as if it
did not come from such ancient roots, and were not vegetating with
the self-same inextinguished life of the patriarchal tree. How much
to the honor of the nation that she has transmitted without a break
the consecration which the hands of Patrick, Malachy, and Laurence
laid upon her hierarchy, while neighboring people have been obliged
to send abroad for pastoral unction! It is most edifying to see the
congregations at Mass, and to hear the loud murmur of faith and
adoration at the elevation of the Host. It is beautiful to see them
stop at the church to pay a visit of a minute as they pass on their
way to work, or at least to take the holy water at the door. Drivers,
policemen, men cleaning the streets, all classes are seen to do this. I
was coming out of a church one day in winter, and found a child’s maid
with a child in her arms, kneeling in the damp, wet porch, praying.
“Why don’t you go inside? ‘Tis quite wet here,” I said. “I was afraid
the child would make too much noise, sir!” It was a week-day, and there
were only a few persons inside.
The good, simple, peaceable man of _The Imitation of Christ_ is found
in Ireland. I met one of these—a learned, pious, prudent priest, yet
as simple in worldly ways as a child, and amusingly ignorant of our
modern progress, but courageous as a martyr when called on in court
for testimony involving his priestly character. I met another man, a
layman, a pure Celt, strong and vigorous, eighty years of age, simple
in his diet and dress, speaking English poorly, but Irish fluently and
well; he walked at sixty years of age as many miles in three days;
and when at last his son, a man of twenty-three, got tired, he took
him on his back, and kept on. Such a man might Abraham have been. No
wonder his parish priest said to him before me: “I’m glad to see you,
James. I hope to see you often, and that you may live long to inspire
and encourage me and our people by your example!” His daughter died in
Lawrence, Mass., and thus the grandson wrote to the old man at home:
“Mother asked for the holy water, and washed her face with it, and
sprinkled us, blessing us. She then directed that her body should be
carried to the grave on the shoulders of her own flesh and blood, and
asked us to turn her face to the east. We turned her, and we thought
she had gone asleep, but it was the long sleep of death!” Such is
Irish faith. These people are most edifyingly patient and cheerful in
sickness and misery. They never complain, but always say, “‘Tis the
will of God.” In Waterford, one awful, snowy day, I was much struck by
this dialogue between two old persons: “How are you, Mary?” “Oh! then,
pretty well, Denis, only I have the rheumatics.” “Oh! then, ‘tis God’s
will; and you can’t complain, as you’re able to be about!” My friends,
if you had the wretched rags that she and he had on, and their probably
empty stomachs, I think you would have been neither inclined to preach
nor disposed to practise resignation. I never, by any accident, met
any one so ill-clad here as I saw there. Even in the snow they had no
shoes nor underclothing.
Is it any wonder, then, that the great spirit of Montalembert was
inflamed by visiting such a country? As Mrs. Oliphant says in her
_Memoir_, “He had seen a worshipping nation, and his imagination had
been inspired by the sight, and all his resolutions had burst into
flower.”
Another spectacle that entertained us here was that of an artless
maiden. Such a treat for an American! To see a girl of eighteen or
twenty years so modest and artless in her ways. There is a charm
about such an one; she seems God’s fairest work, as an honest man is
his noblest. At the convent schools in Ireland one notices the same
gentleness, which contrasts beautifully with what we have so much of at
home, and that feature of which Shakespeare says, speaking of Perdita:
“... Her voice was ever soft,
Gentle, and low—an excellent thing in woman.”
I heard an American express his notion of it characteristically by
saying: “How quick these girls would find a husband in America!” An
English writer, speaking of a city which was remarkably Irish, though
not in Ireland, first indulges in some of his usual pokes and jokes
about its inhabitants, and then says: “Nowhere did I ever meet better
bred ladies”; and a lady well acquainted with the high society of one
of our sister cities told me that the ladies in Ireland were far better
educated. Indeed, the love of education is very great amongst the Irish
people.
I never saw finer schools than those of the Christian Brothers in
Cork, and all supported by the voluntary contributions of the people,
without a cent from the government, and in a very poor country.
Although a poor Protestant is rare in Ireland, the statistics of the
Dublin census for 1872 show that the number of illiterates amongst the
Catholics is smaller than amongst the adherents of any other religious
denomination. And still people will talk of the ignorant Irish, and
the opposition of the priests to education! The ignorance, whatever it
is, of the Irish, like the rags that hang on their limbs, is a sad but
glorious sign of their fidelity to God’s truth! If they had wished to
sell their heavenly treasure, they might have got the mess of pottage
called godless education. All honor to them and to their priests for
the inestimable value they place on the deposit of faith handed down
by saints and scholars! There is a good deal of carelessness and want
of enterprise amongst the Irish people, no doubt; but as for the
former, as F. Burke says: “God help us! Much they’ve left us to be
careless with.” The less a man has, the more thriftless he is likely to
be. Having in this country a sure title to his own and a prospect of
success, I maintain that the Irishman will become as thrifty, without
being niggardly, as any other citizen.
Their wit is proverbial, their good-nature under all circumstances most
remarkable. In Kilkenny, one Sunday, I saw a party in miserable uniform
marching about playing rather unskilfully on a few musical instruments,
and calling themselves a band. A crowd followed them through the wet,
snow-covered streets, and continually assailed the musicians and each
other indifferently with snow-balls. A policeman standing on a corner
got one behind his ear, but, like most of the rest, laughed and made
nothing of it. Imagine a New York M. P. under similar circumstances! On
one occasion, I watched a group of men bantering a rather old seaman
who complained of toothache; one suggested that he should take a sup
of cold water, and sit on the fire until it boiled; another advised him
to hang his night-cap on the bed-post, and, mixing a little whiskey and
hot water, etc., should drink until he saw two night-caps; a third said
the best thing was to tie the tooth to a tree, and run away from it. He
heard them all very good-humoredly, but simply remarked, as if it were
not worth while now at his time of life to learn cures: “Faix, I can’t
have many more o’ them.”
A jolly, witty, careless bachelor lived on his own property in
Blackpool. His houses were two; that which he occupied was open to the
weather, and the adjoining one looked as if it had been burned. It was
a complete ruin. They were in such a state that some friend remarked
that they were likely to fall in and bury him. “Faith,” said the poor
lonely bachelor, “‘twould be the best thing that could happen me, if I
was prepared.” We must repeat here the story of an Irish Protestant,
who went to church with his Catholic friend. His surprise at the
strange sights and sounds soon got the better of him, and he whispered:
“Why, Pat, this beats the very ould divil.” “That’s the intention,”
said Pat, and kept on blessing himself all the same.
Americans, who are not taxed to support a foreign despotic master, who
have a sure and enduring title to their property, and who stand or fall
by their own free, unimpeded efforts, sometimes wonder at the want of
enterprise, neatness, and care of the Irish people. But a visit to the
country and a look into its circumstances explain why this is the case.
The man who feels that his house may be taken from him to-morrow is
not likely to spend much on its decoration; the father who knows that
his children are destined to the lowest servitude is even tempted to
be careless about sending them to school, and no doubt reprehensible
habits which may take several generations to eradicate are naturally
formed in such a condition of things. I have said enough, however, to
show—and a visit to Ireland, combined with a knowledge of her people
under a free and favorable government, will convince us—that these
faults of some of the Irish are their misfortune rather than their
natural character, and that, when they are free from the iron shackles
of a barbarous conqueror, they will shine forth in all the virtues
which adorn a great Catholic nation.
All the advantages undoubtedly derivable from going abroad are attended
with a danger which sometimes overtakes men of limited education
and small mind, and which experience teaches we are all obliged to
guard against. Contact with the institutions of most parts of Europe
has a tendency to undermine the simple, independent qualities of
the republican. The splendor of the throne, the tinsel of rank, the
worship of mammon, family pride, etc., by which the sterling worth
of the individual is overlooked and individual virtue is disregarded
for the glitter which often covers the rottenness and impurity of
caste—all these appeal temptingly to the wealthy but otherwise
undistinguished American. His daughters are sought in marriage by
members of broken-down princely houses, because they have money; his
sons are courted by noble gamblers, because they are rich; and I need
not tell why it is that principle in these cases is often sacrificed to
that base tendency of our fallen nature which makes us aspire to power,
rank, and title, just as a little boy does to the possession of a whip,
a sash, and a cocked hat.
I recall now the case of one of our American admirals, who, when
patriotic New Hampshire objected to changing the Indian names of our
men-of-war to Saxon ones, defended his action by saying: “He did not
see why England should have all the fine names.” The poor man was
actually so infatuated by the style, pretension, and wealth of England
that he thought even the stale nomenclature of her vessels preferable
to the fresh, historically endeared ones taken from our native land—a
piece of weakness and folly which drew out the merited protest of the
Granite State, which had given some of those fine old Indian names
to ships that under them gained glory in war, and won admiration and
respect when they visited the coasts of Europe. Imagine exchanging
such names as Tuscarora, Niagara, Oneida, for such ones as Vixen,
Hornet, Viper, Spitfire, or even for Hector, Ajax, and Captain! It
were unjust, however, to the rude health of our republican atmosphere
to suppose that weakness such as this can be called characteristic
of those nurtured on our soil, and were conclusive against hope in
the perpetuity of our institutions. Such exceptional and deplorable
examples need not make us fear the consequences of travel to the
majority of travellers. The really educated, reflecting man knows the
lessons of history too well to be deceived by the glitter of such
institutions, which, like the _ignis fatuus_ itself, is a token of
the underlying rottenness. The religious man feels deeply that, while
obedience to authority is essential to all government, still modesty
and simplicity have given life and vigor, while pride and luxury have
been the bane and caused the death of nations; and he knows that the
conscientious, willing adhesion of the democrat to the laws he has had
an influence in making is more trustworthy, as it is more noble, than
the abject, servile submission of the slave, disgusting to God, as well
as dishonorable to his image. The priest cannot but feel deeply that
the only system and the only land which allows the church to stand or
fall by her own strength and merits is America; and his consciousness
of her increasing prosperity, in contrast to her maimed and bleeding
condition in other lands, must only attach him still more to his
country and her institutions. And while he adverts, as I have done, to
her faults, and wishes her to take pattern by the virtues and warning
by the sins of other nations, it is because his heart as well as his
interest are bound up with her fate:
“... Sail on, O ship of state!
Sail on, thou Union strong and great
. . . . . . . .
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our faith, triumphant o’er our fears,
Are all with thee—are all with thee.”
We may theorize about patriotism by our firesides at home, but you
feel what it is when you are in a foreign land. The beating of your
heart, the brilliancy of your glance, the warmth of your grasp,
all without reflection and spontaneously occurring when you meet a
fellow-countryman, while they afford a most pure and exquisite delight,
prompt us, with the force of unerring instinct, to love our country.
I remember, when out on the broad Atlantic, with the monotonous waste
of waters in every direction, to have noticed something in the kiss
of the sunbeams, in the familiar sweetness of the air, denoting the
nearness of home by these embraces, so to speak, of our own clime.
The lifting up of the heart, the light gladness of the spirits that
succeeded, were not even due to the thought of home and friends The
magic influence of atmosphere alone had been enough to produce them.
And is it not natural?
“Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land?
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand?”
If such an one there be, he is a rare and monstrous exception. The
feeling of common humanity is expressed with universal truth in the
lines of sweet-singing Goldsmith in his classic poem, “The Traveller”:
“Where’er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee:
Still to _my country_ turns with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.”
CHARTRES.
IT is the hour of pilgrimages. Probably never since the middle ages
were they so numerous, or, with regard to the public ones, so carefully
organized as at the present time; whether to the favored localities to
which in these latter days heavenly manifestations have been accorded,
or to the ancient sanctuaries whose history is coeval with that of the
whole Christian era.
At this moment, when a vast concourse of pilgrims from various parts of
France, and especially from its capital, are gone to pay their homage
to our Lady of Chartres, and beg her intercession on behalf of their
country, it may not be uninteresting to some among our readers if we
endeavor briefly to trace the history of this celebrated shrine.
On entering the richly sculptured entrance—too large to be called a
porch, and too truly Gothic to be called a portico—of the church of S.
Germain l’Auxerrois in Paris, the visitor is struck with the beauty of
the ancient frescos with which its interior is adorned; so effective in
composition, so spiritual in expression, and in execution so delicate,
simple, and refined. In one of these, which fills the tympanum of a
closed arch forming part of the north side, is depicted the form of a
venerable, white-bearded sage, who might without difficulty serve to
represent a Druid (though in all probability it is the prophet Isaias),
kneeling, with an expression of wonder and joy on his aged countenance,
while an angel, opening a window, shows him a distant vision of the
Virgin Mother and her divine Son.
The connection between the subject of this fresco and that of the
present article will shortly be apparent. The ancient city, which was
formerly the capital of the Carnutes, claims the honor of having been
the first in the world to consecrate a temple to the Blessed Virgin.
Chartres, before the Christian era dawned upon the earth, foresaw from
the midnight darkness the shining of the “Morning Star” which should
precede its rising, and by anticipation did homage to the Virgin who
was to bring forth—_Virgini Parituræ_.
It was previous to the subjugation of the Gauls by the Roman arms
that this homage began. They were still a free, wild, and haughty
race; _Mala gens_, according to the _Commentaries_ of their conqueror;
living little in their towns, much in their pathless forests; they
are, moreover, by the same author reported to be a religious people;
that is to say, submissive to their priests, from whom they had not
only their faith, but also their laws and government.
These priests were the Druids. If old Armorica was the cradle of their
worship, it is no less true that it had at a very early period spread
not only into Britain, but also over the whole of Gaul, establishing at
Chartres the central point of its continental empire. There the solemn
sacrifices were offered, and there were held the tribunals of justice;
_in loco consecrato_,[207] which expression, by a slight variation,
might fittingly be rendered, _in luco consecrato_, considering the
veneration in which woods and groves were held, and that it was in
these that the assemblies met.
Not until after the Roman invasion was polytheism gradually and with
difficulty engrafted on the more primitive Druidic worship, which was
evidently neither of Greek nor Latin origin, but rather the offspring
of Egypt or Chaldea, with occasional indications of affinity with the
belief of the Hebrews. The Galli and Cymri had originally come from the
East, being alike descendants of Gomer, the son of Japhet.[208]
As some writers have imagined the Egyptian cross in the form of the
Greek _Τ_, the _signum vitæ futuræ_, to have proved the expectation
among that nation of the coming of the Messias, so others have seen in
the venerated mistletoe attached to the oak an image of the Redeemer on
the cross, and in the offerings of bread and wine a foreshadowing of
the sacrament of the altar. In any case, these were but vague notions
or veiled presentiments of truths of which Israel alone possessed the
certainty; yet some stray gleam from the light of Hebrew prophecy may
have shown to others than the chosen people a faint and distant vision
of that great second Mother of the human race who should repair the
ills brought on it by the first.
According to the oldest traditions, it was a hundred years before the
birth of our Saviour that this expectation manifested itself in a
public manner among the Druids of the Carnutes, by the consecration of
a grotto, for a long time previous famous among them, to the “Virgin
who was to bring forth.”
No written document of equal antiquity to this epoch exists in support
of the tradition; nor would it be possible, from the fact that the
Druids committed nothing to writing, but transmitted the doctrines of
their religion and the facts of history solely by oral teaching.
The Cathedral of Chartres, however, from the time of its foundation
by the Blessed Aventinus, who is said to have been the disciple of S.
Peter, faithfully guarded the memory of an event which was its peculiar
glory, by consigning the history thereof to its archives. These were
carefully consulted by the Abbé Sébastien Rouillard, especially a very
ancient chronicle which was translated from Latin into French in 1262,
during the reign of S. Louis, and of which he gives the following
account, although, in rendering it into English, we lose the charm
of the quaint original: “Wherefore the Druids having arrived at this
last centenary which immediately preceded the birth of Our Lord, ...
the said Druids being assembled together by the revolution of the
new year to perform their accustomed ceremonies for gathering in the
mistletoe, which, coming from heaven and attaching itself to oaks and
divers other trees, was a figure of the Messias; at that time, in the
assembly of the aforesaid Druids, all being vested in their mantles of
white wool, after their custom, in the presence of Priscus, King of
Chartres, and of the princes, lords, and other estates of the province,
the Archdruid, having made the sacrifice of bread and wine according
to custom, and praying the God of heaven that the sacrifice aforesaid
might be salutary to all the people of the Carnutes, declared that the
divine inbreathing (afflatus) with which he felt himself filled so
greatly overpowered him as well-nigh to take away the power of speech,
causing his heart to beat with vehement blows, and overwhelming it with
extraordinary joy, seeing that he had to announce, by the revolution
of the new century, the presage of her approach who should restore
the golden age, and bring forth Him for whom the nations waited.”
“Wherefore, O heaven! is thy tardy movement slower than the longing of
my desires?... If old age, which has brought my steps to the brink of
the grave, forbids me to behold with my own eyes that which I foresee,
nevertheless I render thanks, O Deity Supreme, to thee, who hast
inspired our sacred college with its expectation. In the midst of this
grotto, and hard by this well, shall be raised an altar and an image to
the Virgin who shall bring forth a Son. And do ye, princes and lords
here present, declare whether this thing is pleasing to you.” Thus
spoke the pontiff, while tears rolled down his long white beard. The
whole assembly, being seized with a spirit of joy and devotion, eagerly
corresponded with the desires of its high-priest. The altar was raised
and the image dedicated—_Virgini Parituræ_.
The place where this solemn assembly was held is none other than the
hill whereon now stands the Cathedral of Chartres. At that period, a
thick wood surrounded the grotto, which resembled the _Grottes des
Fées_ still to be seen in many secluded country-places in France, and
which were not unfrequently the abodes of Druidesses, the remembrance
of whom is preserved under this popular appellation.
We have here, according to this tradition, the most ancient pilgrimage,
which was Christian in spirit before being so in reality. The other
Druidic virgins, venerated in various places, as at Nogent, Longpont,
and Châlons-sur-Marne, were all later and in imitation of the Virgin of
Chartres.
The consecrated grotto in time became the crypt of the mediæval
cathedral which now in all its majestic beauty rises above it. The
original building, in consequence of various catastrophes, changed
its form, and was more than once renewed before obtaining its present
splendor; but the Druidic image has invariably remained in the locality
first assigned to it, whither all the centuries of Christian times have
successively sent multitudes of pilgrims to do homage to _Notre Dame
de Soubs Terre_, and whither we must go to find the copy which has
replaced the ancient and venerable effigy, destroyed, not yet a century
ago, by sacrilegious hands, which, in the time of the great Revolution,
tore it from its sanctuary and threw it into the flames. The present
image is a faithful reproduction of the Druidic one, of which a minute
description is given in a chronological _History of Chartres_, written
in the XVIth century. The Virgin Mother is enthroned, with her son upon
her knees, whose right hand is raised in benediction, while in the left
he holds the globe of the world. Over the Virgin’s robe is a mantle in
form of a dalmatic; her head is covered with a veil, surmounted by a
crown, of which the ornaments somewhat resemble the leaves of the ash.
Her countenance is extremely well formed, oval, dark, and shining, and
the whole figure has much resemblance to the ancient Byzantine type.
With regard to the supposed reasons for the color of the complexion, we
will quote the words of Sébastien Rouillard:
“La dite image des Druides est de couleur mauresque, comme presque
toutes les aultres de l’Eglise de Chartres. Ce que l’on estime avoir
été fait par les Druides et aultres à leur suitte, sur la présomptive
couleur du peuple oriental, exposé plus que nous aux ardeurs du soleil,
cause que l’Espouse du Cantique des Cantiques dit que le soleil l’a
découlourée, et que pour être brune, elle ne laisse d’être belle.
Néantmoins Nicephore qui avait vue plusieurs tableaux de cette Vierge
faicte par Saint Luc après le naturel, dit que la couleur de son visage
estoit _sitochroë_, ou de couleur de froument. Si ce n’est qu’on
veuille dire que le froument estant meur tire sur le brun ou couleur de
chastaigne.”[209]
The remainder of the description is so charming that we cannot refrain
from finishing the portrait:
“La Vierge estoit de stature médiocre.... Ses cheveux tiraient sur
l’or; ses yeux estoient acres et estincellans, aiant les prunelles
jaunastres et de couleur d’olive, ses sourcils cambrez en forme
d’arcade, et d’une couleur noire leur avenant fort bien. Son nez estoit
longuet, ses lèvres vives et flories, sa face non ronde ni aiguë, mais
un peu longuette, les mains et les doigts pareillement longuets. Elle
estoit en toutes choses honneste et grave, parlant peu à peu et à
propos; facile à escouter toutes personnes, affable des plus et faisant
honneur à chascun, selon sa qualité. Elle usoit d’une honneste liberté
de parler, sans rire, sans se troubler, sans se mettre en cholère.
Elle estoit exempte de tout fast, sans se déguiser le maintien, sans
user de délicatesse, et en toutes ses actions monstrant une grande
humilité.”[210]
In presence of the numerous and invariable testimonies of tradition,
not only the great antiquity, but also the Druidic origin of the
pilgrimage of Notre Dame de Chartres appear incontestable, and this
belief is further confirmed by many historical documents, such as,
for instance, the letters-patent which in the year 1432 were granted
at Loches to the Chartrians by Charles VII., and which contain the
following declaration:
“L’Eglise de Chartres est la plus ancienne de notre roïaume, fondée
par prophétie en l’honneur de la glorieuse Vierge-Mère, avant
l’incarnation de Notre Seigneur Jhésus Christ et en laquelle icelle
glorieuse Vierge fut adorée en son vivant.”[211]