From the Lakes of Killarney to the Golden Horn

by Henry M. Field

But let not cold criticism come in to mar the full enjoyment of what we have come so far to see. The principal visitations were not in the garden but in the chapel of the convent, which on that account bears the name of the Chapel of the Visitation. Here is the tomb which contains the body of the sainted nun, an image of whom in wax lies above it under a glass case, dressed in the robe of her order, with a crown on her head, to bring before the imagination of the faithful the presence of her at whose shrine they worship. The chapel is separated from the convent by a large grating, behind which the nuns can be hidden and yet hear the service, and chant their offices. There it was, so it is said, behind that grate, while in an ecstasy of prayer, that our Saviour first appeared to the gaze of the enraptured nun. The grate is now literally covered with golden hearts, the offerings of the faithful. Similar gifts hang over the altar, while gilded banners and other votive offerings cover the walls.

As we entered the chapel, it was evident that we were in what was to many a holy place. At the moment there was no service going on, but some were engaged in silent meditation and prayer. We seemed to be the only persons present from curiosity. All around us were absorbed in devotion. We sat a long time in silence, musing on the strange scene, unwilling to disturb even by a whisper the stillness of the place, or the thoughts of those who had come to worship. At three o'clock the nuns began to sing their offices. But they did not show themselves. There are other Sisters, who have the care of the chapel, and who come in to trim the candles before the shrine, but the nuns proper live a life of entire seclusion, never being seen by any one. Only their voices are heard. Nothing could be more plaintive than their low chanting, as it issued from behind the bars of their prison house, and seemed to come from a distance. There, hidden from the eyes of all, sat that invisible choir, and sang strains as soft as those which floated over the shepherds of Bethlehem. As an accompaniment to the scene in the chapel, nothing could be more effective; it was well fitted to touch the imagination, as also when the priest intoned the service in the dim light of this little church, with its censers swinging with incense, and its ever-burning lamps.

The walls of the chapel are covered with banners, some from other countries, but most from France, and here it is easy to see how the patriotic feeling mingles with the religious. Here and there may be seen the image of the sacred heart with a purely religious inscription, such as Voici le cœur qui a tant aimé les hommes (here is the heart which has so loved men); but much more often it is, Cœur de Jesus, Sauvez la France! This idea in some form constantly reappears, and one cannot help thinking that this sudden outburst of religious zeal has been greatly intensified by the disasters of the German war; that for the first time French armies beaten in the field, have resorted to prayer; that they fly to the Holy Virgin, and to the Sacred Heart of Jesus to implore the protection which their own arms could not give. Hung in conspicuous places on columns beside the chancel are banners of Alsace and Lorraine, covered with crape, the former with a cross in the centre, encircled with the words first written in the sky before the adoring eyes of Constantine: In hoc signo vinces; while for Lorraine stands only the single name of Metz, invested with such sad associations, with the inscription, Sacré cœur de Jesus, Sauvez la France!

There is no doubt that these pilgrimages have been encouraged by French politicians, as a means of reviving and inflaming the enthusiasm of the people, not only for the old Catholic faith, but for the old Catholic monarchy. Of the tens of thousands who flock to these shrines, there are few who are not strong Legitimists. On the walls of the chapel the most glittering banner is that of Henri de Bourbon, which is the name by which the Comte de Chambord chooses to be known as the representative of the old royal race. Not to be outdone in pious zeal, Marshal MacMahon, who is a devout Catholic—and his wife still more so—has also sent a banner to Paray-le-Monial, but it is not displayed with the same ostentation. The Legitimists have no wish to keep his name too much before the French people. He is well enough as a temporary head of the State till the rightful sovereign comes, but when Henri de Bourbon appears, they want no "Marshal-President" to stand in his way as he ascends the throne of his ancestors.

Thus excited by a strange mixture of religious zeal and political enthusiasm, France pours its multitudes annually to these shrines of Lourdes and Paray-le-Monial. We were too late for the rush this year—the season was just over; for there is a season for going on pilgrimages as for going to watering-places, and June is the month in which they come in the greatest numbers. There have been as many as twenty thousand in one day. On the 16th of June—which was a special occasion—the crowd was so great that Mass was begun at two o'clock in the morning, and repeated without ceasing till noon, the worshippers retiring at the end of every half hour, that a new throng might take their places. Thus successive pilgrims press forward to the holy shrine, and go away with an elated, almost ecstatic feeling, that they have left their sins and their sorrows at the tomb of the now sainted and glorified nun.

What shall we say to this? That it is all nonsense—folly, born of fanaticism and superstition? Medical men will have an easy way of disposing of this nun and her visions, by saying that she was simply a crazy woman; that nothing is more common than these fancies of a distempered imagination; that such cases may be found in every lunatic asylum; that hysterical women often think that they have seen the Saviour, &c. Such is a very natural explanation of this singular phenomenon. There is no reason to suppose that this nun was a designing woman, that she intended to deceive. People who have visions are the sincerest of human beings. They have unbounded faith in themselves, and think it strange that an unbelieving world does not give the same credit to their revelations.

From all that I have read of this Marie Alacoque, I am quite ready to believe that she was indeed a very devout woman, who, buried in that living tomb, a convent, praying and fasting, worked herself into such a fever of excitement, that she thought the Saviour came down into the garden, and into the chapel; that she saw his form and heard his voice. To her it was all a living reality. But that her simple statement, supported by no other evidence, should be gravely accepted in this nineteenth century by men who are supposed to be still in the possession of sober reason, is one of the strange things which it would be impossible to believe, were it not that I have seen it with my own eyes, and which is one more proof that wonders will never cease.

But sincerity of faith always commands a certain respect, even when coupled with ignorance and superstition. If this shows an extreme of credulity absolutely pitiful, yet we must consider it not as we look at it, but as these devout pilgrims regard it. To them this spot is one of the holy places of the world, for here they believe the Incarnate Divinity descended to the earth; they believe that this garden has been touched by His blessed feet; and that this little chapel, so honored in the past, is still filled with the presence of Him who once was here, but is now ascended up far above all heavens. And hence this Paray-le-Monial in their minds is invested with the same sacred associations with which we regard Nazareth and Bethlehem.

But with every disposition to look upon these manifestations in the most indulgent light, it is impossible not to feel that there is something very French in this way of attempting to revive the faith of a great nation. Among this people everything seems to have a touch of the theatrical—even in their religion there is frequency more of show than of conviction. Thus this new worship is not addressed to the name of our Saviour, but to His "sacred heart"! There is something in that image which seems to take captive the French imagination. The very words have a rich and mellow sound. And so the attempt which was begun in an obscure village of Burgundy, is now proclaimed in Paris and throughout the kingdom, to dedicate France to the sacred heart of Jesus.

This peculiar form of worship is the new religious fashion. A few weeks since an imposing service attracted the attention of Paris. A procession of bishops and priests, followed by great numbers of the faithful, wound through the streets, up to the heights of Montmartre, there to lay, with solemn ceremonies, the corner-stone of a new church dedicated to the sacred heart. We drove to the spot, which is the highest in the whole circle of Paris, and which overlooks it almost as Edinburgh Castle overlooks that city. There one looks down on the habitations of two millions of people. A church erected on that height, with its golden cross lifted into mid-heaven, would seem like a banner in the sky, to hold up before this unbelieving people an everlasting sign of the faith.