The Catholic World Volume Iii Part 47

[Footnote 52: We translate "Le Chant des Catacombes" into prose, that the n.o.ble ideas may be given with literal accuracy. The author intended it to be sung to the air of "Le Fil de La Vierge" (Scudo).

We give one verse of the original:

"Hier j'ai visite les grandes Catacombes Des temps anciens; J'ai touche de mon front les immortelles tombes Des vieux Chretiens: Et ni l'astre du jour, ni les celestes spheres, Lettres du feu, Ne m'avaient mieux fait lire en profonds caracteres Lo nom de Dieu."]

"Yesterday I visited the great Catacombs of ancient times. I touched with my brow the immortal tombs of early Christians, and never did the star of day, nor the celestial spheres with their letters of fire, teach me more clearly to read in profound characters the name of G.o.d.

"A black-frocked hermit, with blanched hair, walked on in front-- old door-keeper of time, old porter of life and death; and we questioned him about these holy relics of the great fight, as one listens to a veteran's tales of ancient exploits.

"A rock served as portico to the funeral vault; and on its fronton some martyr artist, whose name is known, no doubt, to the angels, had painted the face of Christ, with the fair hair, and the great eyes whence streams a ray of deep gentleness like the heavens.

"Further on, I kissed many a symbol of holy parting upon the tombs.

And the palm, and the lighthouse, and the bird flying to G.o.d's bosom; and Jonas, leaving the whale after three days, with songs, as we leave this world after three days of trouble called time.

"Here it was that each one, standing beside his ready-made grave, like a living spectre, wrestled the fight out, or laid his head down in expectation! Here, that they might prepare a strong heart beforehand for the great day of suffering, they tried their graves, and tasted the first-fruits of death!

"I sounded with a glance their sacred dust, and felt that the soul had left a breath of life lingering in these ashes; and that in this human sand, which weighs so lightly in our hands, lie, awaiting the great day, germs of the almost G.o.d-like forms of eternity.

"Sacred places, where love knew how to suffer purely for the soul's good! In questioning you, I felt that its flame could never perish; for to each being of a day who died to defend the truth, the Being eternal and true, as the price of time, has given eternity.

"Here at each step we behold, as it were, a golden throne, and while treading on tombs we seem to be on Mount Tabor. Go down, go down into the deep Catacombs, into their lowest recesses--go down, and your {314} heart shall rise and, looking up from these graves, see heaven!"

Beside these verses, which are not found in the volumes of "Christian Rome," and are only a first utterance, should be placed, as an original picture full of meaning, his words concerning the slow and gradual destruction of the human body in the Catacombs. We all know Bossuet's _mot_ (after Tertullian) in speaking of a human corpse: "It becomes a something unutterable," he exclaims, "which has no name in any language." The following admirable page from l'Abbe Gerbet's book is, as it were, a development and commentary of Bossuet's words. At this first station of the Catacombs he confines himself to the study of the nothingness of life: "the work I do not say of death, but of what comes after death;" the idea of awakening and of future life follows later. Listen:

"In your progress you review the various phases of destruction, as one observes the development of vegetation in a botanic garden from the imperceptible flower to large trees, rich with sap and crowned with great blossoms. In a number of sepulchral niches that have been opened at different periods one can follow, in a manner, step by step, the successive forms, further and further removed from life, through which _what is there_ pa.s.ses before it approaches as closely as possible to pure nothingness. Look, first, at this skeleton; if it be well preserved in spite of centuries, it is probably because the niche where it lies was hollowed out of damp earth. Humidity, which dissolves all other things, hardens these bones by covering them with a crust which gives them more consistency than they had when they were members of a living body. But not the less is this consistency a progress of destruction; these human bones are turning to stone. A little further on is a grave where a struggle is going on between the power that makes the skeleton and the power that makes dust; the first defends itself, but the second is gaining ground, though slowly. The combat between life and death that is taking place in you, and will be over before this combat between one death and another, is nearly ended. In the sepulchre near by, of all that was a human frame nothing is left but a sort of cloth of dust, a little tumbled and unfolded like a small whitish shroud, from which a head comes out. Look, lastly, at this other niche; there is evidently nothing there but simple dust, the color of which even is a little doubtful from its slightly reddish tinge. There, you say, is the consummation of destruction! Not yet. On looking closely, you discern a human outline: this little heap, touching one of the longitudinal extremities of the niche, is the head; these two heaps, smaller and flatter, placed parallel to each other a little lower down, are the shoulders; these two are the knees. The long bones are represented by feeble trails, broken here and there. This last sketch of man, this vague, rubbed-out form, barely imprinted on an almost impalpable dust, which is volatile, nearly transparent, and of a dull, uncertain white, can best give us an idea of what the ancients called a _shade_. If, in order to see better, you put your head into the sepulchre, take care; do not move or speak, hold your breath. That form is frailer than a b.u.t.terfly's wing, more swift to vanish than a dewdrop hanging on a blade of gra.s.s in the suns.h.i.+ne; a little air shaken by your hand, a breath, a tone, become here powerful agents that can destroy in a second what seventeen centuries, perhaps, of decay have spared. See, you breathed, and the form has disappeared. So ends the history of man in this world."

This seems to me quite a beautiful view of death, and one that prompts the Christian to rise at once to that which is above destruction and escapes the catacomb--the immortal principle of life, love, sanct.i.ty, and {315} sacrifice. I can only indicate these n.o.ble and interesting considerations to those who are eager to study in material Rome the higher city and its significance.

Among l'Abbe Gerbet's writings I will mention only one other, which is, perhaps, his masterpiece, and is connected with a touching incident that will be felt most deeply by practically religious persons, but of which they will not be alone in their appreciation. It was before the year 1838, previously to the abbe's long residence in Rome, that he became intimate with the second son of M. de la Ferronais, former minister of foreign affairs. Young Count Albert de la Ferronais had married a young Russian lady, Mdlle. d'Alopeus, a Lutheran in religion, whom he eagerly desired to lead to the faith. He was dying of consumption at Paris in his twenty-fifth year, and his end seemed to be drawing near, when the young wife, on the eve of widowhood, decided to be of her husband's religion; and one night at twelve o'clock, the hour of Christ's birth, they celebrated in his room, beside the bed so soon to be a bed of death, the first communion of one and the last communion of the other. (June 29, 1836.) L'Abbe Gerbet was the consecrator and consoler in this scene of deep reality and mournful pathos, but yet so full of holy joy to Christians. It was the vivid interest of this incomparable and ideal death-bed which inspired him to write a dialogue between Plato and Fenelon, in which the latter reveals to the disciple of Socrates all needful knowledge concerning the other world, and in which he describes, under a half-lifted veil, a death according to Jesus Christ.

"O writer of Phaedon, and ever admirable painter of an immortal death, why was it not given to you to be the witness of the things which we see with our eyes, hear with our ears, and seize with the inmost perceptions of the soul, when by a concurrence of circ.u.mstances of G.o.d's making, by a rare complication of joy and agony, the Christian soul, revealed in a new half-light, resembles those wondrous evenings whose twilight has strange and nameless tints! What pictures then and what apparitions! Shall I describe one to you, Plato? Yes, in heaven's name, I will speak. I witnessed it a few days ago, but at the end of a hundred years I should still call it a few days. You will not understand the whole of what I tell you, for I can only speak of these things in the new tongue which Christianity has made; but still you will understand enough. Know, then, that of two souls that had waited for each other on earth and had met," etc.

Then follows the story, slightly veiled and, as it were, transfigured, but without hiding the circ.u.mstances. "Plato as a Christian would have spoken thus," said M. de Lamartine of this dialogue, and the eulogium is only just.

L'Abbe Gerbet could, no doubt, have written more than one of these admirable dialogues if he had wished to devote himself to the work, or if his physical organization had enabled him to labor continuously. He processes all that is needed to make him the man for Christian _Tusculanes_. Three times in my life have I had the happiness of seeing him in places entirely suited to him, and which seemed to make a natural frame for him: at Juilly, in 1831, in the beautiful shades that Malebranche used to frequent; in 1839, at Rome, beneath the arches of solitary cloisters; and yesterday, again, in the episcopal gardens of Amiens, where he lives, near his friend, M. de Salinis.

Everywhere he is the same. Imagine a slightly stooping figure, pacing with long, slow steps a peaceful walk, where two can chat comfortably together on the shady side, and where he often stops to talk. Observe closely the delicate and affectionate smile, the benign countenance, in which something reminds us of {316} Flechier and of Fenelon; listen to the sagacious words, elevated and fertile in ideas, sometimes interrupted by fatigue of voice, and by his pausing to take breath; notice among doctrinal views, and comprehensive definitions that come to life of themselves and prove their strength upon his lips, those charming _mots_ and agreeable anecdotes, that talk strewn with reiniscences and pleasantly adorned with amenity,--and do not ask if it is any one else--it is he.

L'Abbe Gerbet has one of those natures which when standing alone are not sufficient unto themselves, and need a friend; we may say that he possesses his full strength only when thus leaning. For a long time he seemed to have found in M. de Lamennais such a friend of firmer will and purpose; but these strong wills often end, without meaning to do so, by taking possession of us as a prey, and then casting us like a slough. True friends.h.i.+p, as La Fontaine understood it, demands more equality and more consideration. L'Abbe Gerbet has found a tender and equal friend, quite suited to his beautiful and faithful nature, in M.

de Salinis; to praise one is to win the other's grat.i.tude at once.

Will it be an indiscretion if I enter this charming household and describe one day there, at least, in its clever and literary attractions? L'Abbe Gerbet, like Flechier, whom I have named in connection with him, has a society talent full of charm, sweetness, and invention. He himself has forgotten the pretty verses, little allegorical poems, and couplets appropriate to festivals or occasional circ.u.mstances, which he has scattered here and there, in all the places where he has lived and the countries he pa.s.sed through. He is one of those who can edify without being mournful, and make hours pa.s.s gaily without dissipation. In his long life, into which an evil thought never glided, and which escaped all turbulent pa.s.sions, he has preserved the first joy of a pure and beautiful soul. In him a discreet spirituality is combined with cheerfulness. I have by me a pretty little scene in verse which he wrote a few days ago for the young pupils of the Sacred Heart at Amiens, in which there is a faint suggestion of Esther, but of Esther enlivened by the neighborhood of Gresset. The bishop of Amiens always receives them on Sunday evenings, and they come gladly to his _salon_, where there is no strictness, and where good society is naturally at home. They play a few games, and have a lottery, and, in order that no one may draw a blank, l'Abbe Gerbet makes verses for the loser, who is called, I think, _le nigaud_ (the ninny). These _nigauds_ of l'Abbe Gerbet are appropriate and full of wit; he makes them _by obedience_, which saves him, he says, from all blame and from all thought of ridicule. It is difficult to detach these trifles from the a.s.sociations of society that call them forth; but here is one of the little _impromptus_ made for the use and consolation "of the losers;" it is called the "Evening Game:"

"My children, to-day is our Lady's day; Now tell me, I pray, in her dear name, Should the hand that this morning a candle clasped, Hold cards to-night in a childish game?

I would not with critical words condemn A pastime the world holds innocent, Let me but say that its levity May veil a lesson of deep intent

Think at the drawing of each card That every day is an idle game.

If at its close in the treasures of G.o.d There is no prize answering to your name.

This evening game is an hour well pa.s.sed If G.o.d be the guardian of your sports; And the day, closing as it dawned, Shall rejoin this morning's holy thoughts.

I startle you all with my grave discourse; You would laugh and I preach with words austere; No worldly place this--'tis the bishop's house; So pardon this sermon, my children dear."

This is the man who wrote the book upon the eucharist and the dialogue between Plato and Fenelon, and who had a plan of writing the last conference of {317} St. Anselm on the soul; this is he whom the French clergy could oppose with honor to Jouffroy, and whom the most sympathetic of Protestants could combat only while revering him and recognizing him as a brother in heart and intelligence. L'Abbe Gerbet unites to these elevated virtues, which I have merely been able to glance at, a gentle gaiety, a natural and cultivated charm, which reminds one even in holiday games of the playfulness of a Rapin, a Bougeant, a Bonhours. There has been much dispute lately as to the studies and the degree of literary merit authorized by the clergy; many officious and clamorous persons have been brought forward, and it is my desire to notice one who is as distinguished as he is modest.

For a long time I have said to myself, If we ever have to elect an ecclesiastic to the French Academy, how well I know who will be my choice! And what is more, I am quite sure that philosophy in the person of M. Cousin, religion by the organ of M. de Montalembert, and poetry by the lips of M. de Lamartine, would not oppose me.

Monday, Day after the Feast of a.s.sumption, Aug. 16, 1832.

[Since the above article was written, the Abbe Gerbet has had conferred on the episcopal dignity. He died about one year ago.--Ed.

C. W.]

[ORIGINAL.]

OUR NEIGHBOR.

Set it down gently at the altar rail, The faithful, aged dust, with honors meet; Long have we seen that pious face so pale Bowed meekly at her Saviour's blessed feet.

These many years her heart was hidden where Nor moth nor rust nor craft of man could harm; The blue eyes seldom lifted, save in prayer, Beamed with her wished for heaven's celestial calm.

As innocent as childhood's was the face, Though sorrow oft had touched that tender heart; Each trouble came as winged by special grace And resignation saved the wound from smart.

On bead and crucifix her fingers kept Until the last, their fond, accustomed hold; "My Jesus," breathed the lips; the raised eyes slept.

The placid brow, the gentle hand, grew cold.

The choicely ripening cl.u.s.ter lingering late Into October on its shriveled vine Wins mellow juices which in patience wait Upon those long, long days of deep suns.h.i.+ne.

Then set it gently at the altar rail, The faithful, aged dust, with honors meet; How can we hope if such as she can fail Before the eternal G.o.d's high judgment-seat?

{318}

From The Literary Workmen

JENIFER'S PRAYER.

BY OLIVER CRANE.

IN THREE PARTS.

[CONCLUSION.]

PART III.