The church itself was small, but it boasted of a pretty grey tower; and on each side of the door of the church were two works of art, much celebrated in the neighbourhood. On the left side, beneath the window, a large niche was grated in with thick, rusty iron bars. It occupied the whole extent from the portico to the corner of the church, and from the ground to the window; and, within the bars, six monster demons—spirits of the unrepentent dead, the forms of wretches who had died without owning the name of their Saviour, were withering in the torments of hell-fire; awful indeed was the appearance of these figures; they were larger than human, and twisted into every variety of contortion which it was conceived possible that agony could assume. Their eyes were made to protrude from their faces, their fiery tongues were hanging from their scorched lips; the hairs of each demon stood on end and looked like agonized snakes; they were of various hideous colours; one was a dingy blue; another a horrid dirty yellow, as though perpetual jaundice were his punishment; another was a foul unhealthy green; a fourth was of a brick-dust colour; a fifth was fiery red, and he was leaping high as though to escape the flame; but in vain, for a huge blue flake of fire had caught him by the leg, and bound him fast; his fiery red hands were closed upon the bars, his tortured face was pressed against them, and his screeching mouth was stretched wide open so as to display two awful rows of red-hot teeth; the sixth a jet black devil, cowered in a corner and grinned, as though even there he had some pleasure in the misery of his companions.
The space occupied on the other side was much larger, for it was carried up so far as to darken a great portion of the window. That on the left represented the misery of hell—torment without hope. That on the right contained two tableaus: the lower one was purgatory, here four recumbent figures lay in the four corners, uncomfortably enough; for the bed of each figure was six sharp spikes, each of which perforated the occupier of it. But yet these dead men were not horrible to look at as those six other wretches; their eyes were turned on a round aperture above, the edge of which was all gilt and shining, for the glory of heaven shone into it. This aperture entered into paradise. Through the aperture the imaginative artist had made a spirit to be passing—his head and shoulders were in paradise; these were also gilt and glorious, and on his shoulders two little seraphims were fixing wings; his nether parts below the aperture, were still brown and dingy, as were the four recumbent spirits who rested on their gridirons till the time should come that they also should be passed through.
Above the aperture was to be seen paradise in all its blazon of glory, numberless little golden-headen cherubims encircled a throne, on which was seated the beneficent majesty of Heaven. From the towers and roofs projected numerous brazen-mouthed instruments, which welcomed into everlasting joy the purified spirit which was ascending from purgatory.
Thus were paradise, purgatory and pandemonium represented at St. Laud’s, and abominable as such representations now appear to be, they had, to a certain extent, a salutary effect with the people who were in the habit of looking at them. That they were absolute accurate representations of the places represented, they never for a moment presumed to doubt; and if the joys of heaven, as displayed there, were not of much avail in adding to the zeal of the faithful, the horrors of hell were certainly most efficacious in frightening the people into compliance with the rules laid down for them, and in preventing them from neglecting their priests and religious duties.
The people were crowded round the church; some were kneeling with the wooden monk at the foot of the cross, and some round the bars of purgatory. Others were prostrated before the six condemned demons, and some sat by the road-side, on the roots of the trees, telling their beads. Many men were talking of the state of the times, and of the wars to come; some were foretelling misery and desolation, and others were speaking of the happy days about to return, when their King and their priests should have their own, and La Vendée should be the most honoured province in France.
They made a pretty scene, waiting there beneath the shade till their priest should come to lead them to some rural chapel. The bright colours worn by the women in their Sunday clothes, and the picturesque forms of the men, in their huge broad-brimmed flapping hats, harmonized well with the thick green foliage around them. They shewed no sign of impatience, they were quite content to wait there, and pray, or gossip, or make love to each other, till such time as Father Jerome should please to come; they had no idea that their time was badly spent in waiting for so good a man.
At any rate he came before they were tired, and with him came a man who was a stranger to them all, except to Jacques Chapeau. This man was but little, if anything, better dressed than themselves; he looked like one of their own farmers of the better days; certainly from his dress and manner he had no pretensions to be called a gentleman, and yet he walked and talked with Father Jerome as though he were his equal.
“God bless you, my children, God bless you,” said the Curé, in answer to the various greetings he received from his flock. “Follow me, my children, and we will worship God beneath the canopy of his holy throne,” and then turning to the stranger, he added: “the next time you visit me at St. Laud’s, M. d’Elbée, we shall, I doubt not, have our church again. I could now desire the people to force the doors for me, and no one would dare to hinder them; but I have been thrust from my altar and pulpit by a self-constituted vain authority—but yet by authority; and I will not resume them till I do so by the order of the King or of his servants.”
“I reverence the house of God,” replied M. d’Elbée, “because his spirit has sanctified it; but walls and pillars are not necessary to my worship; a cross beneath a rock is as perfect a church to them who have the will to worship, as though they had above them the towers of Notre Dame, or the dome of St. Peter’s.”
“You are right, my son; it is the heart that God regards; and where that is in earnest, his mercy will dispense with the outward symbols of our religion; but still it is our especial duty to preserve to his use everything which the piety of former ages has sanctified; to part willingly with nothing which appertains in any way to His church. The best we have is too little for His glory. It should be our greatest honour to give to Him; it is through His great mercy that He receives our unworthy offerings. Come, my children, follow me; our altar is prepared above.”