WHEN WILL THEY LEARN ITS SECRET?
HOW THE CARDINAL'S OBSEQUIES IMPRESSED A BAPTIST SPECTATOR.
(From the Baptist Examiner.)
For the third time in a quarter of a century the streets have been thronged, and an unending procession has filed by the dead. Long lines reached many blocks, both up and down Fifth avenue, and they grew no shorter through the best part of three days. This recognition of the eminence and power of the Cardinal, John McCloskey, has been very general.
All classes have paid homage. And why? He was a gentleman. He was learned, politic, able, far-sighted, clean. His energy was without measure. The rise and reach of his influence and work have no chance for comparison with the accomplishment of any other American clergyman. There is none to name beside him. He was a burning zealot all his life. Elevation and honors came to him. He became a prince in his Church. He swept every avenue of power and influence within his grasp into that Church. He lived singly for it. In his death, his Church exalts herself. She gives, after her faith, prayers, Masses, glory. In his, life he spoke only for Rome. In his death his voice is intensified. His life was one long gain to his people. In his, death they suffer no loss. His time and character and personality are so exalted, that, "being dead he yet speaketh."
The Church of Rome stands alone. It is forever strange. It is a law to itself. Thus it comes that this funeral does not belong to America, or to the century. Rome and the Middle Ages conducted the obsequies. The canons are prescribed. They have never changed. Behold then in New York, what might have been seen in ruined Melrose Abbey in its ancient day of splendor.
The Cardinal lies in state in his cathedral, that consummate flower of all his ministry. Saw you ever a Roman Pontiff lying in state? The high catafalque is covered with yellow cloth. The body, decked in official robes, uncoffined, reclines aslant thereon. The head is greatly elevated. A mighty candle shines on the bier at either corner. The Cardinal's red hat hangs at his feet. His cape is purple, his sleeves are pink drawn over with lace, his shirt is crimson and white lace covered. Purple gloves are on his hands. On his head is his tall white mitre. His pectoral cross lies on his pulseless breast. His seal ring glitters on his finger. To me it was an awful and uncanny figure. The man was old and disease wasted. The lips were sunken over shrunken gums. The chin was sharp and far-protruding. The colors of the cloths were garish and loud. It was a gay lay figure, red and yellow and white and black and purple and pink. It made me shudder. Yet lying there under the very roof his hands had builded, that reclining figure was immensely impressive.
The work—the work, in light and strength and glory stands; but the skilled and cunning workman is brought low, and lies cold and silent. The crowded and glorious, almost living cathedral—the richly bedecked body dismantled, deserted, dead. Was ever contrast so wide or suggestive? The white, shining arches and pinnacles, up-pointing in architectural splendor. The architect lies under them prone, unconscious, decaying. The beautiful windows, all storied in colors almost supernatural, and telling their histories and honoring their place. But the temple of the Cardinal's soul is in ruins, the windows are broken, and its day is darkness and mold.
So, silent he lies in his house, surrounded by his faithful, whose cries and lamentations he hears not, his cold hands clasped, his dead face uncovered, as though looking above its high vaulted roof.
I seemed to see again the bedizened skeleton of old St. Carlo Borromeo in the crypt of the Cathedral of Milan, as lying in his coffin of glass, his bones all bleached and dressed. But the careless throngs go thoughtlessly, noisily on. Some weep, some laugh, and Thursday, the day of sepulture, comes. What masses of people! What platoons of police! The magnificent temple is packed by pious thousands. The four candles about the bier become four shining rows. The glitter of royal violet velvet and cloth of gold add to the gorgeous trappings of the dead. The waiting multitudes look breathlessly at the black draped columns, the emblems of mourning put on here and there. Without announcement a single voice cries out from the dusky chancel the first lines of the office for the dead. A great Gregorian choir of boys takes up the wail, and their shrill treble is by-and-by joined by the hoarser notes of four hundred priests, in the solemn music of the Pontifical Requiem Mass. It has never been given to mortal ears to listen to such marvels of musical sound in this country. Anon the great organs and the united choirs render the master's most mournful music for the dead. Then processions, then eulogy. And what eulogy! Schools, colleges, convents, asylums, protectories, palaces, cathedrals, churches. What a vast and impressive testimony!
What a company rises up to call him blessed! This imposing pageantry is not an empty show. It is Rome's display of her resources and power. Who else can have such processions and vestments and music? Who can so minister to the inherent, perhaps barbaric remnant, love for display? In the wide world where can the ear of man catch such harmonies? The music, as a whole, was a deluge of lofty and inspiring expressions. Anguish, despair, devotion, submission, elevation! Ah, how the lofty Gothic arches thundered! How they sighed and cried and melted. The great assembly was swayed, awe-struck, like branches of forest trees in gales or in zephyrs. The influence of those melodies will not die. Oh! Rome is old, Rome is new; Rome is wise. Rome is the Solomon of the Churches.
Mark this well. The Cardinal is dead. What happens? Does the machinery stagger? Has a great and irreparable calamity fallen on the churches? Are any plans abandoned? Is the policy affected? Will aggression cease? Nothing happens but a great and imposing funeral. The plans are not affected. The lines do not waver. No work begun will be suspended. Everything goes on. If only a deacon should die out of some Baptist church, alas! my brethren, the plate returns empty to the altar. The minister puts on his hat. Consternation jumps on the ridge-pole and languishing, settles down. When shall we learn? When shall we plan harmoniously, unite our counsels, work within the lines, cease wasting resources, carry forward a common work, and when some man falls, put a new man in his place, move up the line, and keep step? To-day, when a gap is made here, we try to mend it, after a time, by seeking how great a gap we can create somewhere else. What wonder that good men get tired and go where no such folly flies, and where the current flows on and on forever!
And the old Cardinal rests in the crypt, under the high white altar. He sleeps in the mausoleum of the great. He has the reward of his labors. He carried into his tomb the insignia of his high office. Sealed up in his coffin is a parchment which future ages may read, long after we are all forgot, giving a condensed record of his long and active career. The bishops and priests have gone home to their parishes; and their tireless labors go on. They are thinking of the mighty but gentle and kindly Cardinal; of the telegrams from the Papal Court, the College of Cardinals, the Pope, and of the imposing funeral; of his own words which they wrung from him amidst the rigors of death:
"I bless you, my children, and all the churches." It was the parting of a prophet. And the priests will live for the Church and mankind. They are whispering, "The faithful are rewarded! Effort is acknowledged! O, Rome has shaken the earth! Rome is putting her armor together again." Sometimes I hear the creaking of her coat of mail as she mightily moves herself in exercise.