A third apparition was that accorded to Aubert, bishop of Avranches (A.D. 706). This holy man seems to have been desirous to attract to his own diocese a portion of that sanctity (and perhaps other advantages) which Monte Galgano derived from the worship of St. Michael. In the Gulf of Avranches, in Normandy, stands a lofty isolated rock inaccessible from the land at high water, and for ages past celebrated as one of the strongest fortresses and state prisons in France. In the reign of Childebert II., St. Aubert, bishop of Avranches, had a vision, in which the Archangel Michael commanded him to repair to this rock, then the terror of mariners, and erect a church to his honour on the highest point, where a bull would be found concealed, and it was to cover as much space as the bull had trampled with his hoofs: he also discovered to the bishop a well-spring of pure water, which had before been unknown. As the bishop treated this command as a dream, the Archangel appeared to him a second and a third time; and at length, to impress it on his waking memory, he touched his head with his thumb, and made a mark or hole in his skull, which he carried to the grave. This time the bishop obeyed, and a small church was built on the spot indicated; afterwards replaced by the magnificent Abbey Church, which was begun by Richard duke of Normandy, in 966, and finished by William the Conqueror. The poverty of invention shown in this legend, which is little more than a repetition of that of Monte Galgano, is very disappointing to the fancy, considering the celebrity of Mont-Saint-Michel as a place of pilgrimage, and as one of the most picturesque objects in European scenery, with its massive towers, which have braved the tempests of a thousand years, rising from the summit of the peak, and the sea weltering round its base. It failed not, however, in the effect anticipated. The worship of St. Michael became popular in France from the ninth century; the Archangel was selected as patron saint of France, and of the military order instituted in his honour by Louis XI. in 1469. The worship paid to St. Michael as patron saint of Normandy naturally extended itself to England after the Norman conquest, and churches dedicated to this archangel abound in all the towns and cities along the southern and eastern shores of our island; we also have a Mount St. Michael on the coast of Cornwall, in situation and in name resembling that on the coast of France. At this day there are few cities in Christendom which do not contain a church or churches dedicated to St. Michael, some of them of great antiquity.
I must not omit that St. Michael is considered as the angel of good counsel:—that ‘Le vrai office de Monseigneur Saint Michel est de faire grandes revelations aux hommes en bas, en leur donnant moult saints conseils,’ and in particular, ‘sur le bon nourissement que le père et la mère donnent à leurs enfans.’[65] It is to be regretted that ‘Monseigneur Saint Michel’ should be found rather remiss in this part of his angelic functions.
We shall now see how far these various traditions and popular notions concerning St. Michael have been carried out in Art.
In all representations of St. Michael, the leading idea, well or ill expressed, is the same. He is young and beautiful, but ‘severe in youthful beauty,’ as one who carries on a perpetual contest with the powers of evil. In the earlier works of art he is robed in white, with ample many-coloured wings, and bears merely the sceptre or the lance surmounted by a cross, as one who conquered by spiritual might alone. But in the later representations, those coloured by the spirit of chivalry, he is the angelic Paladin, armed in a dazzling coat of mail, with sword, and spear, and shield. He has a lofty open brow, long fair hair floating on his shoulders, sometimes bound by a jewelled tiara; sometimes, but not often, shaded by a helmet. From his shoulders spring two resplendent wings. Thus we see him standing by the throne of the Madonna, or worshipping at the feet of the Divine Infant; an exquisite allegory of spiritual and intellectual power protecting purity and adoring innocence.
There is a most beautiful little figure by Angelico, of St. Michael standing in his character of archangel and patron of the Church Militant, ‘as the winged saint;’ no demon, no attribute except the lance and shield. The attitude, so tranquilly elegant, may be seen in this sketch (34). In the original the armour is of a dark crimson and gold, the wings are of rainbow tints, vivid and delicate; a flame of lambent fire rests on the brow.
But the single devotional figures of St. Michael usually represent him as combining the two great characters of captain of the heavenly host, and conqueror of the powers of hell. He stands armed, setting his foot on Lucifer, either in the half-human or the dragon form, and is about to transfix him with his lance, or to chain him down in the infernal abyss. Such, however varied in the attitude, expression, and accessories, is the most frequent and popular representation of St. Michael, when placed before us, as the universally received emblem of the final victory of good over evil.
34 St. Michael. (Angelico, Fl. Acad.)
In those churches of Christendom which have not been defaced by a blind destructive zeal, this image meets us at every turn: it salutes us in the porch as we enter, or it shines upon us in gorgeous colours from the window, or it is wreathed into the capitals of columns, or it stands in its holy heroic beauty over the altar. It is so common and so in harmony with our inmost being, that we rather feel its presence than observe it. It is the visible, palpable reflection of that great truth stamped into our very souls, and shadowed forth in every form of ancient belief,—the final triumph of the spiritual over the animal and earthly part of our nature. This is the secret of its perpetual repetition, and this the secret of the untired complacency with which we regard it; for even in the most inefficient attempts at expression, we have always the leading motif distinct and true, the winged virtue is always victorious above, and the bestial vice is always prostrate below: and if to this primal moral significance be added all the charm of poetry, grace, animated movement, which human genius has lavished on this ever blessed, ever welcome symbol, then, as we look up at it, we are ‘not only touched, but wakened and inspired,’ and the whole delighted imagination glows with faith and hope, and grateful triumphant sympathy,—so at least I have felt, and I must believe that others have felt it too.