Margaret knelt beside the bed, and repeated the Our Father. He listened reverently, and echoed the Amen. She repeated the Acts, and there was no response this time; the Creed, and still there was no answer. She could not rise. In faltering tones she said the Memorare, with the request, "Obtain for this friend of mine the gift of faith, that though lost to me he may not be lost to himself."
Still he was silent. All the pent emotion of her soul was surging up, and showing the joints in her mail of calmness. He was going out into what was to him the great unknown, and she, with full knowledge of the way, could not make him see it. One last, vain effort of self-control, then she burst forth with a prayer half drowned in tears.
"O merciful Christ! I cannot live upon the earth unless I know that he is in heaven. Thou hast said, Knock, and it shall be opened unto you. With my heart and my voice I knock at the door. Open to me for thy word's sake! Thou hast said that whatever we ask in thy name, we shall receive. I ask for faith, for heaven, for my friend who is dying. Give them for thy word's sake! Thou hast said that whoever does good to the least of thy children has done it unto thee. Remember what this man has done for me. I was miserable, and he comforted me. I was at the point of death, and he saved me. I was hungry, and he fed me. I was a stranger, and he took me in. Oh! look with pity on me, who in all my life have had only one year of happiness, but many full of sorrow; see how my heart is breaking, and hear me for thy word's sake! for thy word's sake!"
As her voice failed, a hand touched her head, and she heard Mr. Granger's voice.
"I cannot make you distrust the truth of God," he said. "I do not believe; but also, I do not know. I am willing to do all that he requires. Perhaps he does require this. Such faith as yours must mean something. Do as you will."
"May I send for a priest right away? And will you be baptized?"
"Dear little friend, yes!" he said.
"O Mr. Granger! God bless you! I am happy. Doesn't he keep his promises? I will never distrust him again."
His grave looks did not dampen her joy. Of course it was not necessary that he should have much feeling. The good intention was enough. She wet his face with ice-water, laid ice to his head, put the fan in his hand, in her childish, joyful way, shutting his fingers about it one by one, then went out to send Mr. Lewis for a priest.
He stared at her. "Why, you look as if he were going to get well," he said almost indignantly.
"So he is, Mr. Lewis," she answered. "He is going to have the only real getting well. I shall never have to be anxious about him any more. He will be out of harm's way."
She went back to the sick-room then, quiet again. "Forgive me if my gladness jarred on you," she said. "I forgot everything but that you were now all safe. You will go straight to heaven, you know. And of course, since it is to be now, then now is the best time."
He said nothing, but watched her with steady eyes, wherever she moved. What thoughts were thronging behind those eyes, she could never know. Nothing was said till Mr. Lewis came back with the priest.
It was sunset when he came, and the father staid till late in the evening. Then he went, promising to say mass the next morning for his new penitent, and to come early to see him.
Mr. Granger was evidently suffering very much, and Margaret would not talk to him. Only once, when he opened his eyes, she said,
"You wish Dora to be a Catholic?"
"Yes, surely! O my child!" with a little moan of pain.
When the priest came up in the morning, they had some difficulty in rousing Mr. Granger; and when at length he comprehended their wishes, he looked from one to the other with an expression of incredulity.
"Communion for me!" he repeated.
The priest sat beside him, and as gently as possible prepared him for the sacrament.
"What! it is really and indeed the body and blood of Jesus Christ that is offered me as a viaticum?" he asked, now thoroughly roused.
"God himself has said so; and who shall dispute his word?"
The patient raised himself upright. "After I have spent all my life in forgetfulness of him, when I turn to him only on my death-bed, will he come to me now, and give me all himself?"
"Yes," the priest answered. "He forgives generously, as only God can. He does not wait, he comes to you. 'Behold! I stand at the door, and knock.'"
The sick man lifted his face; "O wonderful love!" he exclaimed.
The priest smiled, and put on his stole.
"The angels wonder no less than you," he said.
Left alone with him once more, Margaret knelt, praying continually, but softly too, so as not to disturb one sacred thought in that soul for the first time united to its Saviour. When a half-hour had passed, she touched his folded hands. He had always before opened his eyes at her faintest touch; but now he did not.
"He has lost consciousness," the surgeon said, when she called him. "He will never speak again."
"Oh! never again? What? never again?"
Mr. Lewis took her by the hand. "Try to bear it, Maggie," he said. "Think what comfort you have."
"But he never said good-by to me! I wanted to say something to him. I had so much to tell him; but I thought of him first!"
Ah! well. When we go down to the valley of the shadow of death with our loved ones, and find the iron door that admits them shut in our faces, then indeed we know, if never before, how precious is faith. And those who can see the pearly gates beyond the iron one should take shame to themselves if they refuse to be comforted.
At eighteen, Louis Beethoven became conscious of new perceptions, and new capacities for joy. A young kinswoman of his mother, a beautiful, sprightly girl, whose parents lived in Cologne, came on a visit to Bonn. The voice and smile of Adelaide called his genius into full life, and he felt he had power to do as he had never done. But Adelaide could not understand him, nor appreciate his melodies, which were now of a bolder and higher, yet a tenderer cast. He never declared his love in language; but his brother Carl discovered it, and one evening, Louis overheard him and Adelaide talking of his boyish passion, and laughing at him. The girl said she "was half inclined to draw him out, it was such a capital joke!"
Pale and trembling, while he leaned against the window-seat concealed by the folds of a curtain, Louis listened to this colloquy. As his brother and cousin left the room, he rushed past them to his own apartment, locked himself in, and did not come forth that night. Afterward he took pains to shun the company of the heartless fair one; and was always out alone in his walks, or in his room, where he worked every night till quite exhausted. The first emotions of chagrin and mortification soon passed away; but he did not recover his vivacity. His warmest feelings had been cruelly outraged; the spring of love was never again to bloom for him; and it seemed, too, that the fair blossoms of genius also were nipped in the bud. The critics of the time, fettered as they were to the established form, were shocked at his departure from their rules. Even Mozart, whose fame stood so high, whose name was pronounced with such enthusiastic admiration, what struggles had he not been forced into with these who would not approve of his so-called innovations! The youth of nineteen had struck out a bolder path! What marvel, then, that, instead of encouragement, nothing but censures awaited him? His master, Neefe, who was accustomed to boast of him as his pride and joy, now said, coldly and bitterly, his pupil had not fulfilled his cherished expectations—nay, was so taken up with his newfangled conceits, that he feared he was for ever lost to real art.
"Is it so indeed?" asked Louis of himself in his moments of misgivings and dejection. "Is all a delusion? Have I lived till now in a false dream?"
Young Beethoven sat in his chamber, leaning his head on his hand, looking gloomily out of the vine-shaded window. There was a knock at the door; but wrapped in deep despondency, he heard it not, nor answered with a "come in."
The door was opened softly a little ways, and in the crevice appeared a long and very red nose, and a pair of small, twinkling eyes, overshadowed by coal-black bushy eyebrows. Gradually became visible the whole withered, sallow, comical, yet good-humored face of Master Peter Pirad.
Peter Pirad was a famous kettle drummer, and was much ridiculed on account of his partiality for that instrument, though he also excelled on many others. He always insisted that the kettle-drum was the most melodious, grand, and expressive instrument, and he would play upon it alone in the orchestra. But he was one of the best-hearted persons in the world. It was quite impossible to look upon his tall, gaunt, clumsy figure—-which, year in and year out, appeared in the well-worn yellow woolen coat, buckskin-colored breeches, and dark worsted stockings, with his peculiar fashioned felt cap—without a strong inclination to laugh; yet, ludicrous as was his outward man, none remained long unconvinced that, spite of his exterior, spite of his numerous eccentricities, Peter Pirad was one of the most amiable of men.
From his childhood, Louis had been attached to Pirad; in later years, they had been much together. Pirad, who had been absent several months from Bonn, and had just returned, was surprised beyond measure to find his favorite so changed. He entered the room, and walking up quietly, touched the youth on the shoulder, saying, in a tone as gentle as he could assume, "Why, Louis! what the mischief has got into your head, that you would not hear me?" Louis started, turned round, and, recognizing his old friend, reached him his hand.
"You see," continued Pirad, "you see I have returned safely and happily from my visit to Vienna. Ah! Louis! Louis! that's a city for you. As for taste in art, you would go mad with the Viennese! As for artists, there are Albrechtsberger, and Haydn, Mozart, and Salieri—my dear fellow, youmustgo to Vienna." With that Pirad threw up his arms, as if beating the kettle-drum, (he always did so when excited,) and made such comical faces, that his young companion, spite of his sorrow, could not help bursting out laughing.
"Saker!" cried Pirad, "that is clever; I like to see that you can laugh yet, it is a good sign; and now, Louis, pluck up like a man, and tell me what all this means. Why do I find you in such a bad humor, as if you had a hole in your skin, or the drums were broken—out with it? My brave boy, what is the matter with you?"
"Ah!" replied Beethoven, "much more than I can say; I have lost all hope, all trust in myself. I will tell you all my troubles, for, indeed, I cannot keep them to myself any longer!" So the melancholy youth told all to his attentive auditor; his unhappy passion for his cousin; his master's dissatisfaction with him, and his own sad misgivings.
When he had ended, Pirad remained silent awhile, his forefinger laid on his long nose, in an attitude of thoughtfulness. At length, raising his head, he gave his advice as follows: "This is a sad story, Louis; but it convinces me of the truth of what I used to say; your late excellent father—I say it with all respect to his memory—and your other friends, never knew what was really in you. As for your disappointment in love, that is always a business that brings much trouble and little profit. Women are capricious creatures at best, and no man who has a respect for himself will be a slave to their humors. I was a little touched that way myself, when I was something more than your age; but the kettle-drum soon put such nonsense out of my head.My advice is, that you stick to your music, and let her go. For what concerns the court-organist, Neefe, I am more vexed; his absurdity is what I did not precisely expect. I will say nothing of Herr Yunker; he forgets music in his zeal for counterpoint; as if he should say he could not see the wood for the tall trees, or the city for the houses! Have I not heard him assert, ay! with my own living ears, slanderously assert, that the kettle-drum was a superfluous instrument? Only think, Louis, the kettle-drum a superfluous instrument! Donner and—! Did not the great Haydn—bless him for it!—undertake a noble symphony expressly with reference to the kettle-drum? What could you do with 'Dies irae, dies illa,' without the kettle-drum? I played it at Vienna inDon Giovanni, the chapel-master Mozart himself directing. In the spirit scene, Louis, where the statue has ended his first speech, and Don Giovanni in consternation speaks to his attendants, while the anxious heart of the appalled sinner is throbbing, the kettle-drum thundering away—" Here Pirad began to sing with tragical gesticulation. "Yes, Louis, I beat the kettle-drum with a witness, while an icy thrill crept through my bones; and for all that the kettle-drum is a useless instrument! What blockheads there are in this world! To return to your master—I wonder at his stupidity, and yet I have no cause to wonder. Now, my creed is, that art is a noble inheritance left us by our ancestors, which it is our duty to enlarge and increase by all honest and honorable means. My dear boy, I hold you for an honest heir, who would not waste your substance; who has not only power, but will to perform his duty. So take courage, be not cast down by trifles; and take my advice and go to Vienna. There you will find your masters: Mozart, Haydn, Albrechtsberger, and others not so well known. One year, nay, a few months in Vienna, will do more for you than ten years vegetating in this good city. You can soon learn, there, what you are capable of; only mind what Mozart says, when you are playing in his hearing."
The young man started up, his eyes sparkling, his cheeks glowing with new enthusiasm, and embraced Pirad warmly. "You are right, my good friend!" he cried. "I will go to Vienna; and shame on any one who despises your counsel! Yes, I will go to Vienna."
When he told his mother of his resolution, she looked grave, and wept when all was ready for his departure. But Pirad, with a sympathizing distortion of countenance, said to her, "Be not disturbed, my good Madame van Beethoven! Louis shall come back to you much livelier than he is now; and, madame, you may comfort yourself with the hope that your son will become a great artist!"
Young Beethoven visited Vienna for the first time in the spring of the year 1792. He experienced strange emotions as he entered that great city; perhaps a dim presentiment of what he was in future years to accomplish and to suffer. He was not so fortunate this time as to find Haydn there; the artist had set out for London a few days before. He was disappointed, but the more anxious to make the acquaintance of Mozart. Albrechtsberger, Haydn's intimate friend, undertook to introduce him to Mozart.
They went several times to Mozart's house before they found him at home. At last, on a rainy day, they were fortunate. They heard him from the street, playing; our young hero's heart beat wildly as they went up the steps, for he looked on that dwelling as the temple of art. When they were in the hall, they saw, through a side-door that stood open, Mozart, sitting playing the piano; close by him sat a short, fat man, with a shining red face; and at the window, Madame Mozart, holding her youngest son, Wolfgang, on her lap, while the eldest was sitting on the floor at her feet.
The composer greeted Albrechtsberger cordially, and looked inquiringly on his young companion. "Herr van Beethoven from Bonn," said Albrechtsberger, presenting his friend; "an excellent composer, and skilful musician, who is desirous of making your acquaintance."
"You are heartily welcome, both of you, and I shall expect you to remain and dine with me to-day," said Mozart; and taking Louis by the hand, he led him to the window where his wife sat. "This is my Constance," he continued, "and these are my boys; this little fellow is but three months old"—and throwing his arm around Constance's neck, he stooped and kissed the smiling infant.
Louis looked with surprise on the great artist. He had fancied him quite different in his exterior; a tall man, of powerful frame, like Handel. He saw a slight, low figure, wrapped in a furred coat, notwithstanding the warmth of the season; his pale face showed the evidences of long-continued ill-health; his large, bright, speaking eyes alone reminded one of the genius that had createdIdomeneusandDon Giovanni.
"So you, too, are a composer?" asked the fat man, coming up to Beethoven. "Look you, sir, I will tell you what to do; lay yourself out for the opera; the opera is the great thing!"
Louis looked at him in surprise and silence.
"Master Emanuel Schickaneder, the famous impressario," said Albrechtsberger, scarcely controlling his disposition to laugh.
"Yes," continued the fat man, assuming an air of importance, "I tell you I know the public, and know how to get the weak side of it; if Mozart would only be led by me, he could do well! I say if you will compose me something—by the way, here is a season ticket; I shall be happy if you will visit my theatre; to-morrow night we shall perform theMagic Flute, it is an admirable piece, some of the music is first-rate, some not so good, and I myself play the Papageno."
"You ought to do something in that line," said Mozart, laughing, "your singing puts one in mind of an unoiled door-hinge."
The impressario took a pinch of snuff, and answered with an important air, "I can tell you, sir, the singing is quite a secondary thing in the opera, for I know the public."
Here several persons, invited guests of the composer, came in; among them Mozart's pupils, Sutzmayr and Holff, with the Abbé Stadler and the excellent tenorist, Peyerl. After an hour or so spent in agreeable conversation, enlivened by an air from Mozart, they went to the dinner-table. Schickaneder here played his part well, doing ample justice to the viands and wine. The dinner was really excellent; and the host, notwithstanding his appearance of feeble health, was in first-rate spirits, abounding in gayety, which soon communicated itself to the rest of the company. After they had dined, and the coffee had been brought in, Mozart took his new acquaintance apart from the others, and asked if he could be of any service to him.
Louis pressed the master's hand, and without hesitation gave his history, and informed him of his plans; concluding by asking his advice.
Mozart listened with a benevolent smile; and when he had ended, said, "Come, you must let me hear you play." With that, he led him to an admirable instrument in another apartment; opened it, and invited him to select a piece of music.
"Will you give me a theme?" asked Louis.
The master looked surprised; but without reply wrote some lines on a leaf of paper, and handed it to the young man. Beethoven looked over it; it was a difficult chromatic fugue theme, the intricacy of which demanded much skill and experience. But without being discouraged, he collected all his powers, and began to execute it.
Mozart did not conceal the sur prise and pleasure he felt when Louis first began to play. The youth perceived the impression he had made, and was stimulated to more spirited efforts.
As he proceeded, the master's pale cheek flushed, his eyes sparkled; and stepping on tiptoe to the open door, he whispered to his guests, "Listen, I beg of you! You shall have some thing worth hearing."
That moment rewarded all the pains, and banished all the apprehensions of the young aspirant after excellence. Louis went through his trial-piece with admirable spirit, sprang up, and went to Mozart; seizing both his hands and pressing them to his throbbing heart, he murmured, "I also am an artist!"
"You are indeed!" cried Mozart, "and no common one! And what may be wanting, you will not fail to find, and make your own. The grand thing, the living spirit, you bore within you from the beginning, as all do who possess it. Come back soon to Vienna, my young friend—very soon! Father Haydn, Albrechtsberger, friend Stadler, and I will receive you with open arms; and if you need advice or assistance, we will give it you to the best of our ability."
The other guests crowded round Beethoven, and hailed him as a worthy pupil of art! Even the silly impressario looked at him with vastly increased respect, and said, "I can tell you, I know the public-well, we will talk more of the matter this evening over a glass of wine."
"I also am an artist!" repeated Louis to himself, when he returned late to his lodgings.
Much improved in spirits, and reinspired with confidence in himself, he returned to Bonn, and ere long put in practice his scheme of paying Vienna a second visit.
This he accomplished at the elector's expense, being sent by him to complete his studies under the direction of Haydn. That great man failed to perceive how fine a genius had been intrusted to him. Nature had endowed them with opposite qualities; the inspiration of Haydn was under the dominion of order and method; that of Beethoven sported with them both, and set both at defiance.
When Haydn was questioned of the merits of his pupil, he would answer with a shrug of his shoulders—"He executes extremely well." If his early productions were cited as giving evidence of talent and fire, he would reply, "He touches the instrument admirably." To Mozart belonged the praise of having recognized at once, and proclaimed to his friends, the wonderful powers of the young composer.
Among the churches of Paris which I visited in my saunterings, whose very stones seemed to have a tongue and cry aloud, was the interesting one of St. Germain des Près.
"Each shrine and tomb within thee seems to cry."
Here were buried Mabillon and Descartes, and also King Casimir of Poland, who laid aside his crown for a cowl in 1668, and died abbot of the monastery in 1672. He is represented kneeling on his tomb offering his crown to heaven. Two of the Douglases are likewise buried here, with their carved effigies lying on their tombs clad in armor. One was the seventeenth earl, who died in 1611. He had been bred a Protestant, but, going to France in the time of Henry III., was converted to the faith of his fathers, those old knights of the Bleeding Heart, by the discourses at the Sorbonne. He returned to Scotland after his conversion, but was persecuted there on account of his religion, and had the choice of prison or banishment. So he chose to be exiled, and went back to France, where he ended his days in practices of piety. He used to attend the canonical hours at the abbey of St. Germain des Près, and even rose for the midnight office. It was no unusual thing in the middle ages for the laity to assist at the night offices, and the church encouraged the practice. There was a confraternity in Paris, in the thirteenth century, composed of devout persons who used to attend the midnight service. This was not confined to men, but even ladies did the same. Many people used to pass whole nights in prayer in the churches, as, for example, King Louis IX. and Sir Thomas More.
There is in this church a statue of the Blessed Virgin, under a Gothic canopy all of stone, at the west end of the edifice, and looking up the right aisle. It pleased me so much that I never passed the church afterward without turning aside for a moment to say my Ave before it. Tapers were always burning before it, and there was always some one in prayer, who, like me, would doubtless forget for a few moments the cares and vanities of life at the feet of the Mother of Sorrows. This statue was at St. Denis before the revolution, having been given to that church by Queen Jeanne D'Evereux.
King Childebert's tomb formerly occupied a conspicuous place in this church, but it is now at St. Denis, where he is represented holding a church in his hands, and with shoes which have very sharp and abrupt points at the ends, like an acuminate leaf. He was the original founder of this church and the abbey once adjoining. It was called the Golden Church, because the walls outside were covered with plates of brass, gilt, and inside with pictures on a gold ground. It took its name from St. Germain, Bishop of Paris, who was buried here, and was the spiritual adviser of Childebert. St. Germaine l'Auxerrois was named from the sainted bishop of Auxerre of that name, renowned for his instrumentality in checking Pelagianism in England. He visited that country twice for that purpose. And at the head of the Britons he was the instrument of the great Alleluia victory in 430.
Whatever other people discover, I found a great deal of piety in Paris. The numerous churches and chapels are frequented at an early hour for the first masses; and all through the day is a succession of worshippers. I particularly loved the morning mass in the Lady Chapel at St. Sulpice, at which a crowd of the common people used to assist and sing charming cantiques in honor of the Madonna or the Blessed Sacrament. And at Notre Dame des Victoires, one of the most popular churches in the city, and renowned throughout the world for its arch-confraternity to which so many of us belong, there is no end to the stream of people. The wonderful answers to prayer and the many miracles wrought there draw needy and heavily-laden hearts, not only from all parts of the kingdom, but of the world. The altar of Notre Dame des Victoires looks precisely as it is represented in pictures. The front and sides are of crystal, through which are seen the relics of St. Aurelia, from the Roman catacombs. Seven large hanging lamps burn before it, and an innumerable quantity of tapers. On the walls areex votoand many marble tablets with inscriptions of gratitude to Mary; such as: "J'ai invoqué Marie, et elle m'a exaucé." "Reconnaissance à Marie," etc. It is extremely interesting and curious to examine all these, and they wonderfully kindle our faith and fervor.
Among them is one of particular interest—-a silver heart set in a tablet of marble fastened to one of the pillars of the grand nave. On it are the arms of Poland and a votive inscription. This heart contains a portion of the soil of Poland impregnated with the blood of her martyred people—hung here before her whom they style their queen, as a perpetual cry to Mary from the bleeding heart of crushed and Catholic Poland. This was placed here on the two hundredth anniversary of the consecration of that country to the Blessed Virgin Mary, by King John Casimir, on the first of April, 1656. On the same day, 1856, all the Polish exiles in Paris assembled at Notre Dame des Victoires, to renew their vows to Mary and make their offering, which was received and blessed by M. l'Abbé Desgenettes, the venerable curé, and founder of the renowned arch-confraternity of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. A lamp burns perpetually before this touching memorial, emblem of the faith, hope, and charity of the donors.
In the national prayer of the Poles is the following touching invocation:
"Give back, O Lord! to our Poland her ancient splendor. Look down on our fields, soaked with blood! When shall peace and happiness blossom among us? God of wrath, cease to punish us. At thy altar we raise our prayer; deign to restore us, O Lord! our free country."
This prayer is aParce nobiswhich will be echoed by every one who sympathizes with the down-trodden and oppressed.
Coming out of the church of Notre Dame des Victoires I heard the words, "Quelques sous, pour l'amour de la Sainte Vierge," and looking around I saw an old man holding out his hat in the most deferential of attitudes—one of the few beggars I met in the city. I could not resist an appeal made in the holy name of Mary, and on the threshold of one of her favorite sanctuaries. I thought of M. Olier, the revered founder of the Sulpicians, who made a vow never to refuse anything asked in the name of the Blessed Virgin—a resolution that would not often be put to the test in the United States, but one which in Catholic countries is less easy to be kept, where the name of Mary is so often on the lips.M. Olier never left his residence without encountering a crowd of cunning beggars crying for alms in the name of the Sainte Vierge, and, when he had nothing more, he would give them his handkerchief or anything else he had in his pocket.
Some do not approve of indiscriminate charity; but if God were to bestow his bounties only on the deserving, where should we all be? Freely ye have received; freely give.
The Sainte Chapelle has peculiar attractions. It was built in the middle of the thirteenth century for the reception of the precious relics connected with the Passion of our Lord, given by Baldwin II., Emperor of Constantinople, to Louis IX., in 1238. There is a nave with four windows on each side, and a semi-circular choir with seven windows, all filled with beautiful old stained glass, representing the principal events of the life of St. Louis and of the first two crusades.
Among the relics enshrined here was the holy crown of thorns. The king sent two Dominican friars, James and Andrew, to Constantinople for it. When it approached Paris, St. Louis, Queen Blanche his mother, with a great many of the court, went out beyond Sens to meet it. Entering Paris, the king and his brother Robert, clad in woollen and with feet bare, bore the shrine on their shoulders to the church. The bishops and clergy followed with bare feet. The streets through which they passed were sumptuously adorned. In 1793, the holy crown was transferred to the Hotel des Monnaies, where it was taken from its reliquary and given with other relics to the commission of arts under the care of Secretary Oudry, from whom the Abbé Barthélemi obtained it in 1794. He was one of the conservateurs of the antique medals in the Bibliothèque Nationale, where the sacred relic remained till 1804, when the Cardinal de Belloy, Archbishop of Paris, reclaimed the relics from the ministre des cultes. Every proper means was taken to identify them, which being satisfactorily done, the holy crown was transported with great pomp to Notre Dame, August 10, 1806.
A portion of the holy cross, once in the Sainte Chapelle, was saved in 1793 by M. Jean Bonvoisin, a member of the commission des arts and a painter. He gave it to his mother, who preserved it with veneration during the revolution and restored it to the chapter of Paris, in 1804, after M. Bonvoisin and his mother had sworn to the truth of these facts in order to authenticate the relic. It was then allowed to be exposed in the reliquary of crystal in which we see it.
There were at Paris other portions of the holy and true cross on which our Saviour was crucified. One was the Vraie Croix d'Anseau, so called because it was sent in 1109 to the archbishop and chapter of Paris by Anselle or Anseau,grand-chantreof the church of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem, who had obtained it from the superior of the Georgian nuns in that city, the widow of David, king of Georgia. In 1793, M. Guyot de St. Hélène obtained permission to keep the cross of Anseau. He divided it with Abbé Duflost, guardian of the four crosses made of the part he kept, of which three only have been restored to Notre Dame. M. Guyot took the precaution to have them authenticated, and they were restored to the veneration of the faithful in 1803.
Another portion of the true cross was called the Palatine cross, because it belonged to Anna Gonzaga of Cleves, a Palatine princess, who left it by her will to the Abbey of St. Germain des Près, attesting that she had seen it in the flames without being burnt. This relic was enclosed in a cross of precious stones, double, like the cross of Jerusalem. This cross had belonged to Manuel Comnenus, Emperor of Constantinople, who presented it to a prince of Poland. It is eight inches high, without measuring the foot ofvermeilof about the same height, ornamented with precious stones. It has two cross-pieces, like the crosses of Jerusalem, which are filled with the wood of the true cross. It is bordered with diamonds and amethysts. The Palatine princess received it from John Casimir, King of Poland, who took it with him when he retired to France. It was preserved by a curé in 1793, and restored, in 1828, to Notre Dame.
There are two portions of the holy nails at Notre Dame de Paris—one formerly at the abbey of St. Denis, and the other at St. Germain des Près. The first was brought by Charles the Bald from Aix-la-Chapelle, it having been given Charlemagne by the Patriarch of Jerusalem.
In 1793, M. Le Lièvre, a member of the Institute, begged permission to take it from the commission des arts to examine and analyze it as a specimen of mineralogy. He thus saved it from profanation, and restored it to the Archbishop of Paris in 1824.
The second portion was given to St. Germain des Près by the Princess Palatine, who had received it from John Casimir of Poland.
There are many curious old legends respecting the wood of the cross. Sir John Mandeville says it was made of the same tree Eve plucked the apple from. When Adam was sick, he told Seth to go to the angel that guarded paradise, to send him some oil of mercy to anoint his limbs with. Seth went, but the angel would not admit him, or give him the oil of mercy. He gave him, however, three leaves from the fatal tree, to be put under Adam's tongue as soon as he was dead. From these sprang the tree of which the cross was made.
One of the first portions of the holy cross received in France was sent by the Emperor Justin to St. Radegonde. It was adorned with gold and precious stones. When it arrived with other relics, and a copy of the four Gospels richly ornamented, the archbishop of Tours and a great procession of people went out with lights, incense, and sound of holy chant to bear them into the city of Poitiers, where they were placed in the monastery of the Holy Cross founded by St. Radegonde. The great Fortunatus composed in honor of the occasion the Vexilla Regis, now a part of the divine office. I quote two verses of a fine translation of this well-known hymn:
"O tree of beauty, tree of light!O tree with royal purple dight!Elect on whose triumphal breastThose holy limbs should find their rest!"On whose dear arms, so widely flung,The weight of this world's ransom hung,The price of human kind to pay,And spoil the spoiler of his prey!"
"O tree of beauty, tree of light!O tree with royal purple dight!Elect on whose triumphal breastThose holy limbs should find their rest!"On whose dear arms, so widely flung,The weight of this world's ransom hung,The price of human kind to pay,And spoil the spoiler of his prey!"
One pleasant morning I took the cars to visit St. Denis, the old burial-place of the kings of France. As Michelet says, "This church of tombs is not a sad and pagan necropolis, but glorious and triumphant; brilliant with faith and hope; vast and without shade, like the soul of the saint who built it; light and airy, as if not to weigh on the dead or hinder their spring upward to the starry spheres."
Mabillon was at one time the visitor's guide to the tombs of St. Denis. I do not know whether I should prefer his learned details and sage reflections over the ashes of the illustrious dead, or be left as I was to wander alone with my own thoughts through the church of the crypts. What a great chapter of history may be read in this sepulchre of kings! What a commentary on the text, "Dieu seul est grand," is that stained page of the revolution, when the bones of the mighty dead were torn from their magnificent tombs and cast into a trench! It was then earth to earth and ashes to ashes, like the meanest of us. What a long stride may be made here from King Dagobert's tomb at the entrance, all sculptured with legendary lore, to the clere-story window, all emblazoned with Napoleon's glory; from the recumbent Du Guesclin to the tomb of Turenne, and from the chair of St. Eloi to the stall of Napoleon III.! A fit place to moralize, among these statues of kneeling kings and queens, with their hands folded as if they had gone to sleep in prayer.
"For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground,And tell sad stories of the death of kings."
"For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground,And tell sad stories of the death of kings."
I sought out the tomb of one of my favorite knights of the middle ages—that of Bertrand du Guesclin, who, by his devotion to his country and his prowess, merited a place here among kings and to have his ashes mingled with theirs in 1793. There are four of these knights of the olden time in this chapel, all in stone, lying in armor on their tombs. I sat down at the feet of Du Guesclin to read my monographie before going around the church.
My visit was in the octave of the festival of St. Denis and his companions, and their relics were exposed on an altar covered with crimson velvet. Huge wax tapers burned around them, and the chancel was hung around with old tapestry after the designs of Raphael—
"Whose glittering tissues bore emblazonedHoly memorials, acts of zeal and loveRecorded eminent."
"Whose glittering tissues bore emblazonedHoly memorials, acts of zeal and loveRecorded eminent."
This church is a monument of the genius and piety of Suger, one of the most noble and venerable figures in French history, the Abbot of St. Denis, and a statesman. He has been styled "the true founder of the Capetian dynasty." He was one of those eminent men so often found in the church of the middle ages who were raised from obscurity to positions of authority. In his humility, when regent of France, he often alluded to his lowly origin, and once in the following words: "Recalling in what manner the strong hand of God has raised me from the dunghill and made me to sit among the princes of the church and of the kingdom."
The princes of France used to be educated in the abbey of St. Denis, and it was here Louis VI. formed a lasting friendship for Suger, which led him afterward to make him his prime minister.
The monk Suger was on his way home from Italy in 1122 when he heard of his election as abbot of St. Denis. He burst into tears through grief for the death of good old abbot Adam, who had cared for him in his youth. That very morning he had risen to say matins before leaving the hostelry where he lodged, and, finishing the office before it was light, he threw himself again on his couch to await the day. Falling into a doze, he dreamed he was in a skiff on the wide raging sea, at the mercy of the waves, and he prayed God to spare and to conduct him into port. He felt, on awakening, as if threatened with some great danger, but, as he afterward said, he trusted the goodness of God would deliver him from it.After travelling a few leagues, he met the deputation from St. Denis announcing his election as abbot.
When Louis le Jeune, with a great number of nobles, decided to go to the Holy Land, it was resolved to choose a regent to govern the kingdom during his absence. The Holy Spirit was invoked to guide the decisions of the nobles and bishops. St. Bernard delivered a discourse on the qualities a regent should possess. The Count de Nevers and Abbot Suger were chosen. The former declined the office, wishing to enter the Carthusian order. Suger accepted this office with extreme reluctance, and only at the command of the pope. He showed himself an able statesman. St. Bernard reproached him for the state in which he lived while at court, but he proved his heart was not in such a life by resuming all his austerities when he returned to his monastery.
He rebuilt the abbey church of St. Denis in a little more than three years. He assembled the most skilful workmen and sculptors from all parts. But he himself was the chief architect. The very people around wished to have a share in the work, believing it would draw down on them the blessing of Heaven. They brought him marble from Pontoise, and wood from the forest of Chevreuse, sixty leagues distant. But he himself selected the trees to be cut down. Bishops, nobles, and the king assisted in laying the foundations, each one laying a stone while the monks chanted, "Fundamenta ejus in montibus sanctis." While they were singing in the course of the service, "Lapides pretiosi omnes muri tui," the king took a ring of great value from his finger and threw it on the foundations, and all the nobles followed his example.
When the church was consecrated, the king and a host of church dignitaries were present. Thibaud, Archbishop of Canterbury, consecrated the high altar, and twenty other altars were consecrated by as many different bishops.
Suger had a little cell built near the church for his own use. It was fifteen feet long and ten wide. When he built for God his ideas were full of grandeur, but for himself nothing was too lowly. This little cell beside the magnificent church was a continual act of humility before the majesty of the Most High. "Whatever is dear and most precious should be made subservient to the administration of the thrice holy Eucharist," said he. We read how Peter the Venerable, Abbot of Cluny, came to visit St. Denis. After admiring the grandeur of the church, they came to the cell. "Behold a man who condemns us all!" exclaimed Peter with a sigh. The cell had neither tapestry nor curtains. He slept on straw, and his table was set with strictest regard to monastic severity. He never rode in a carriage, but always on horseback, even in old age.
When Abbot Suger felt his end approaching, he went, supported by two monks, into the chapter room where the whole community was assembled, and addressed them in the most solemn and impressive manner on the judgments of God. Then he knelt before them all, and with tears besought their pardon for all the faults of his administration during thirty years. The monks only answered with their tears. He laid down his crosier, declaring himself unworthy the office of abbot, and begged them to elect his successor, that he might have the happiness of dying a simple monk. There is a touching letter from St. Bernard written at this time, which commences thus:
"Friar Bernard to his very dear and intimate friend Suger, by the grace of God abbot of St. Denis, wishing him the glory that springs from a good conscience, and the grace which is a gift of God. Fear not, O man of God! to put off the earthly man —that man of sin which torments, oppresses, persecutes you—the weight of which sinks you down to earth and drags you almost to the abyss! What have you in part with this mortal frame—you who are about to be clothed with glorious immortality?"
Toward Christmas Suger grew so weak that he rejoiced at the prospect of his deliverance, but fearing his death would interrupt the festivities of that holy time, he prayed God to prolong his life till they were over. His prayer was heard. He died on the twelfth of January, having been abbot of St. Denis twenty-nine years and ten months, from 1122 to 1152. His tomb bore the simple inscription:
"Cy gist l'Abbé Suger."
The charter for the foundation of the abbey of St. Denis was given by Clovis. It was written on papyrus, and among others the signature of St. Eloi was attached to it. Pepin and Charlemagne were great benefactors of the abbey. Pepin was buried before the grand portal of the old church with his face down, wishing by his prostrate position to atone for the excesses of his father Charles Martel. Charlemagne with filial reverence built a porch to the church, as a covering over his father's tomb, and that he might not lie without the church. In rebuilding it, Suger had the porch removed and the body transferred into the interior.
The treasury of the abbey was once exceedingly rich. The old kings of France left their crowns to it, and on grand festivals they were suspended before the high altar. Here were the cross and sceptre of Charlemagne, and the crown and ring of the holy Louis IX. Philip Augustus gave the abbey in his will all his jewels and crosses of gold, desiring twenty monks to say masses for his soul. The chess-board and chess-men of Charlemagne were kept here for ages. Joubert, the Coleridge of France, says:
"The pomps and magnificence with which the church is reproached are in truth the result and proof of her incomparable excellence. Whence came, let me ask, this power of hers and these excessive riches, except from the enchantment into which she threw all the world? Ravished with her beauty, millions of men from age to age kept loading her with gifts, bequests, and cessions. She had the talent of making herself loved and the talent of making men happy. It is that which wrought prodigies for her, it is thence she drew her power."
Sixty great wax candles used to burn around the high altar of St. Denis on great festivals. Dagobert left one hundred livres a year to obtain oil for lights, and Pepin allowed six carts to bring it all the way from Marseilles without toll.
In the middle ages there were fairs near the abbey which lasted for a month. Merchants came from Italy, Spain, and all parts of Europe, and, to encourage them to be mindful of their souls as well as of their purses, indulgences were granted to all who visited the church.