The following Sunday a great concourse of people flocked to the
Cathedral. There was much curiosity concerning the sermon of the
poor priest. Many who for years had been accustomed on the plea of
ill-health or old age to ask for a stave for support during the long
service, now passed by the doorkeeper oblivious of everything save
their desire to secure a good place in which to stand.
To begin with, sermons were growing infrequent. In some churches they
had fallen into complete disuse, and it had been necessary for the
"Father Bishops" to enjoin "upon all those that had under them the cure
of souls openly in English upon Sundays to preach and teach them that
they know God Almighty."
And even when there was a sermon, it frequently turned out to be upon
some light and immoral bit from Ovid or Boccaccio taken as a text,
while the people hungered for the words of the Gospel. Or perhaps some
formal schoolman would preach upon the seven works of mercy, or the
seven spiritual sins: "Pride--that lyking of office and high state,
Envy--that sorrowe at the syte of welefare and ioy, Anger--that wykkyde
stirrynge of herte, Gluttony--that lufe in taste of mete and drynke,
Covetousness, Sloth, and Lechery,"--to which last were always tacked on
for good measure,--"Fornication, Adultery, and Incest."
Holy Father! of what use was it to hear a description of these sins.
They were familiar enough to all. What they wanted was some hope and
comfort in their daily life, some counsel in their daily struggles,
some love to help them bear their daily burdens. And it was pretty
certain that the poor priest would give them that. When at last a
priest approached the altar and lit the tall wax candles, full three
thousand persons were glad that their patient wait was at an end.
The ringing of the great bells of the Cathedral and the breaking forth
of the organ into sound announced the arrival of the Bishop. The
stately procession appeared, blazing a sinuous path of light and color
through the dim spaces of the chancel. First came an acolyte bearing
the censer, followed by the cross-bearer carrying the great cross and
escorted on either side by boys with tall lighted tapers in their
hands. After them followed the entire body of clergy, the Bishop,
resplendent in his robes, leaning slightly upon the two assistant
deacons who accompanied him. In his left hand he held the beautiful
pastoral staff, while the right hand was somewhat elevated, as was
meet, to bless such of the faithful as might come upon his way. In the
midst of all the splendor of violet and gold and swaying lights walked
one slender figure in plain russet sacking, a living protest against
all the pomp and magnificence that surrounded him.
Impressive figure! No buskins of cloth of gold on those feet, no annice
of pure white linen about his head, no long linen albe reaching to his
heels, no girdle of white tasselled silk. From those slender shoulders
hung no dalmatic gorgeous with embroidered border, nor graceful
chasuble of fine velvet studded with rare pearls. Only a simple,
bareheaded, poor priest in a garb which had become a familiar sight
enough in the fields of harrowed earth or among the rows of waving
corn, but here in the Cathedral a strange prophetic figure, portending
the beginning of the end--the end of a priesthood that would act
_before_ the people, the beginning of a priesthood that would act _for_
the people; the end of the sway of the mortmain with its icy touch of
the past, the beginning of the sway of the living hand, red with the
quickly flowing blood, warm with the throbbing sense of the fellowship
of man.
Through the hearts of the vast congregation the solemn service swept,
majestic, sublime, stupendous in its power. Power? Everything spoke of
power. Power, power, power--the power of the lesser clergy, the power
of deacons and archdeacons, the power of Bishops and Archbishops,
the power of the Papal Legate, the power of the Pope, the power of
Mighty--Imperial Rome. What though the note of the prayers was always
humility? What knew the people of the Latin words that rose to Heaven?
What though the exquisitely intoned phrases of the Bishop were all a
self-confessed unworthiness to appear before the Lord? There was none
of it observable in the stately motions of the celebrant. What though
he cast himself upon his knees and cried out, "I am an unclean sinner!
Oh, wash me, dear Lord, from all the stains of sin"? What the people
saw was a proud prelate in superb dalmatic, wearing a golden mitre and
carrying a jewelled crozier. To them he was the great Bishop of Ely,
Peer of the realm, Lord of many towns, holder of many manors, possessor
of ten great palaces of residence.
Little by little the people's part in the service had shrunk, until now
the Mass was frankly but a great and magnificent spectacle performed
before them, the choir and the clergy taking upon themselves the
responses that once had been the duty of the congregation. It was well
for the people to know when to kneel, when to bow the head, and when
to genuflect. Also it was well to remember that the devil writes down
every word said during Mass. Every one knew by heart the tale which St.
Augustine related to St. Gregory the Great, of the two chattering women
and the fiend. And it was well to know that a special indulgence is
granted to all that kiss the ground when the Mass is ended.
As the beautiful service took its course, the young poor priest, who
had come with a sneer on his lips, found himself more profoundly
stirred than he would have liked to confess--even to himself. While in
the sacristy, he had been disgusted at the levity of the priests who
stood about in evident indifference while the Bishop was being most
augustly invested. Small wonder that they wearied of the infinitude of
detail performed before their eyes week after week without variation
of a motion or a word. It was the supreme genius of Rome to enforce
obedience to its slightest demand. It was beyond even that genius to
infuse life into the performance. Annys looked about him during the
investiture with a sickening sense of the futility of it all. From
the putting on of the sandals to the last act of handing the Bishop
his beautifully embroidered gloves (the deacon handing him the right
one, the subdeacon the left one) there must be no one prayer or form
omitted. The prelate must be surrounded by eight acolytes upon their
knees, the acolytes and deacons who touch the episcopal vestments
must first wash their hands, the acolytes must elevate the vestments,
then they are solemnly passed over to the deacons who do the actual
enrobing. As the Bishop receives each one of the nine different
articles, he must kiss each one and then murmur the appropriate prayer
for each.
What had all this to do with the telling of "Christ and him crucified?"
Alack for the holy Church of Christ!
Yet, once within the noble interior of the Cathedral, it was impossible
not to fall completely under the sway of the wonderful Art that had
squandered itself, not alone on the general conception, but on each
slightest detail of arch or pillar, so that the least touch of the
humblest stonecutter revealed the presence of Genius. The mind was
caught up and lifted to God by the exquisite delicacy and grace of
execution. If it was but the carving of a single oak leaf, it was done
so that the breath of the woods stirred in the perfect turning of the
serrated edge.
And the ponderous, throbbing voice of the organ, how it overwhelmed
him! And the angelic sweetness of the trained boy voices, how it
thrilled through him! The tears rose to his eyes. He was in the
presence of a Beauty, of a Harmony, the very faintest shadow of which
he could not possibly have conceived. His will lay dormant, a kind
of stupor of deadly sweetness crept over him. Not one sense that was
not subjugated, not one emotion that was not played upon. There crept
into his heart a whisper that perhaps after all there was something
in religion that was not summed up in just a man and a book. Emotions
hitherto unknown thrilled through him as he sat there with the
wonderful service going on about them. Once he came unexpectedly in
contact with the coarse sacking of his gown, and raged against the
harsh touch; he wanted to feel silk and linen between his fingers.
"Benedicamus Patri et Filio: cum Spiritu Sancto,"
the sweetish fumes of the incense penetrated through the vast edifice.
He forgot his dislike of the pagan custom.
"Gloria in excelsis Deo. Et in terra pax hominibus bonæ voluntatis"
rang out from the choir, while the strong chords of the organ filled
the great spaces and made them vibrate. His soul swooned in exaltation.
"Laudamus te, Benedicimus te, Adoramus te, Glorificamus te."
Yes, yes, he adored. He must have been mad to refuse to spend his life
ever within this glorious Minster, ever within sight of these beautiful
vistas, ever within hearing of these heavenly sounds. He would go
immediately after the service to the Bishop and confess his error.
Fool, fool that he had been to hesitate. Was it now too late? Would the
Mass never be over that he could fling himself once again before the
Bishop?
"O Lamb of God that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon
us. O Lamb of God that takest away the sins of the world, grant us
peace."
Yes, peace, peace at any price. That was all that his soul now yearned
for. Could anything be more divine than that exquisite refrain?
"Agnus Dei."
Could the most hardened sinner listen unmoved to that celestial music?
He recalled the words of the Bishop--the savage wolves of the north
pausing in the face of this--the great, visible, tangible power of the
Spirit. Oh, he could not wait to confess to the Bishop how foolish and
stiff-necked he had been. He, Robert Annys, could be the Archdeacon of
Ely and he had refused it.
And yet, accompanying the strong emotional exaltation, there came
slowly over him a sense of helplessness, as if a net were closing
tightly down over him, until there was no escape from its entangling
meshes. He felt the awful eye of Rome upon him, the eye before which
Barbarian chiefs, and Emperors as well, had quailed. It was not alone
that the Papal Legate sat there before him, the presence of Rome
was felt in every one of the countless forms of the Rubric. In the
ringing of the sacring bell, here twice, there thrice; the position
of the deacon and the subdeacon as the celebrant chants the Introit;
the kissing and the incensing of the various articles that are used
in the service, the facing of the altar here, and the facing of the
congregation there; the putting on of the mitre and the taking it off;
the angle of the body in the various degrees of bowing; the precise
position of the second and third fingers; the placing of the veil
over the host, slightly lower on the right than on the left side; and
finally the giving of the left cheek for the kiss of peace.
So much, so very much to come from the simple rule: "Love your
neighbors as yourselves."
He could not but think of that proud boast of the Roman general, Scipio
Africanus, "It is ever our fate that conquered, we conquer."
Did Rome ever more truly conquer than when apparently she lay crushed
and helpless before the triumphant Church of Christ? Had not the Holy
Roman Church (mark the very name!) of the fourteenth century far more
in it of pagan Rome than of Hebraic Nazareth? Was there no one to tell
those people gathered there that all these stately processions bringing
with them light and color into the twilight of the churches, these
swaying banners of gorgeous design, these choir boys in violet robes,
these tall, solemn-faced priests resplendent in their vestments--all
had been employed centuries before to delight and subjugate the
Roman populace? Did they not know that these same triumphal trains
had wound their way through gayly decorated streets to the temples
of the immortal gods? The incense that was swayed so solemnly in the
jewelled censers, did they suspect that this same sweet odor once rose
at the feet of Roman idols? Did they dream--these simple, confiding
people--that even the holy water itself was compounded from a heathen
recipe? that even the very halos about their saints were copied from
the statue of the wicked Nero, where it had symbolized the glory of the
sun? that the devotion paid to the Pope had been received by Caligula,
even down to the kissing of his toe?
The entire organization of the Holy Roman Church, what was it but the
organization of Imperial Rome changed merely in nomenclature?
He looked at the resplendent figure of the Bishop: each scrap of
the episcopal vestments bore its special significance--the sandals
signifying purity, their red bows the patience of martyrs, the
girdle symbolizing continency, the two points or horns of the mitre
standing for the knowledge of the two Testaments--and so on through
every detail--the annice which was wound about the neck being a very
encyclopædia of symbolism, standing for five distinctly different
things.
His eye rested a long time upon that wonderful insignia of office, the
pastoral staff, symbolically shaped on the lines of a shepherd's crook.
The staff was of enamelled gilt copper terminating in an ivory crook
upon which was an exquisitely carved figure of the Virgin. About the
knop were four compartments each containing a figure illustrative of
the history of David, while above these were representations of the
six vices overcome by the same number of virtues, a pleasant microcosm
(which could scarcely be said to be symbolic of the larger life on
earth) where Faith overcame Idolatry, Chastity conquered Impurity,
Charity swept away Envy, Temperance subdued Gluttony, Bounty dispelled
Avarice, and Peace did away with Strife.
And was he to concern himself with all this--give up his freedom to
become a kind of prompter to the Bishop? For the Archdeacon must see
to it that no slightest duty of the celebrant is overlooked, that this
part of the Gospel is read on the north side of the altar and that part
on the east side, and see that his arms are extended here and withdrawn
there.
No, no, after all, his religion was of a totally different kind.
"_For where two or three are gathered together in my name there am I
in the midst of them._"
Surely nothing could be simpler. Surely the religious life foreshadowed
by these words of Christ could take no thought of the countless forms
thrown together and ossified by the Hierarchy.
When the moment came for the delivery of the sermon he arose with a new
courage, his languor entirely thrown off. For as he faced the vast
congregation these words were ringing in his heart:--
"For Christ made never no cathedrals
Ne with him was no cardinals."