When the procession was finished, the holy relics in their several repositories for another seven years, and mass duly celebrated, I returned to the hotel to dinner. About twenty persons were at the table. On my right sat a party of French people, gentlemen and ladies, and the fun they made of what they had seen on the street was immense. They ridiculed as ludicrous in the extreme, and as the very height of absurdity and nonsense, the idea that the clothes and sponge and garments worn two thousand years ago, and constantly exposed to air and all the chances and changes of these eighteen centuries, should be here to-day in good condition; and, of course, the priests and church came in for a good share of denunciation. In front of me, and on my left, was an English-speaking party, the central and principal personage in the group being an English priest. His garb was that of Rome, and his conversation was becoming his garb; but whether he had ever been received into the full communion of Holy Mother, or was only aping her manners and wearing her vestments, it is impossible to say. It makes little difference, however. He was disgusted by the infidelity of these French people, and, supposing none at the table understood the English, he went on to say that it was highly improper to come into a foreign country and ridicule the customs and faith of the people. “For my part,” said he, “I think they are very stupid, as well as very ill-bred, to make such remarks at a public table where there are others who hold these relics in high honor as memorials of their holy religion.” The ladies of the party joined him fully in these sentiments, and, to my surprise, I soon discovered that the two ladies between whom he was sitting, and whom he always addressed as “My dear,” were both Americans, and evidently destined to become, if they had not already, excellent Romans. All of them, and the party was six or seven in number, had been gazing on the same spectacle that I had seen with mingled indignation and pity, and these enlightened, cultivated English and American people received the whole exposition as a glorious manifestation to their eyes of the veritable objects that were used at the time and in the midst of the scenes of the sufferings and death of our blessed Lord, and, therefore, justly to be held in reverence by all the faithful in all coming time.
Pictures of the relics were for sale in all the shops, and I bought a few as souvenirs of my pilgrimage. Particularly I sought for a good representation of that one which is first on the list and first in the admiration of the people. As the Virgin Mother Mary is held in higher honor by all good Catholics than the Son of God himself, so they likewise venerate with a deeper reverence the linen garment that she wore than the cloth which was around the loins of the Saviour on the cross. Having found two or three good copies of this peculiar garment, my curiosity was gratified to see the style which the ladies of Judea wore it in the year of our Lord 1 and onwards. Fashions change, and with the ladies they change more frequently than among the other sex. But the Virgin’s “linen garment” is exactly in the form and pattern of those in use in modern times. It has short sleeves, reaching but a little over the shoulder; it has a lace frill or something of the sort around the neck, with a place for drawing strings in front. It looks, in fact, like any other shirt with the sleeves cut off.
Now, just imagine, if you can, a company of fine-looking men, fifty or sixty years old, in gorgeous costume, with the symbols of priesthood and the pomp of kings, marching through the streets of a city, and bearing aloft, for the admiration of a gaping multitude, an old shirt. That is the mildest way of putting it! That the Virgin Mary ever had it on, there is not the slightest possible reason to suppose. That such garments were then worn is contradicted by our knowledge of the costume of the Orientals of the present and former times. But to argue the question is as absurd as to believe in the shirt. Faith in these relics comes not by reason or argument, but is hereditary, blind, morbid, and against the senses. To doubt is fatal, and nobody here doubts. They believe in the holy linen of Mary, her girdle, the rope, the sponge, Bartholomew’s hair, Thomas’ teeth, Simeon’s arm, St. Catherine’s oil, Stephen’s rib, Peter’s chain, and the child Jesus’ crib. If they believe in these things, what will they not believe? And English and American men and women come here and profess their faith in the whole!
Pilgrimages to this shrine have been made for the last six or seven hundred years. The number of believers crowding in at one time has sometimes been so great that it was found necessary to shut the gates of the city in order to prevent the increase. Every pilgrim was expected to pay a penny, and in one year these amounted to 80,000 florins, or 1,600,000 pence. In that year 142,000 persons were present in one day. In that period the numbers were so great that separate quarters of the town were assigned to different nationalities, and they were allowed to see the relics in their turn. They approached the relics on their knees, and in regular order, each bearing a pure wax candle. Great preparations were required to feed these multitudes, and it is not to be wondered at that it was found too much of a job to have this thing going on every year. Once in seven is certainly quite often enough. But the same forms and ceremonies of opening and displaying the treasures have been preserved from age to age. The exhibition begins July 10th and terminates July 24th. The rush became so great at one time that it was determined to dispense with the farce. But the inhabitants of the city, who, like the Diana smiths, make great gains out of the pilgrims, raised such a clamor that the show was resumed; and it is now as fixed in the routine of religious rites in this Protestant country of Prussia as the toting of the Pope on men’s shoulders at Christmas in Rome. Once in seven years the people flock hither for two weeks in July, and on the 24th the grand procession takes place.
But if the sight of these relics does the souls of the pilgrims no good, you may rest assured that the waters of these fountains will prove a Siloam to you if you have gout, rheumatism, or any cutaneous disease. Perhaps it is not well for me to prescribe without knowing the peculiar symptoms of your case; but for so many centuries have these waters been flowing for the healing of the people, that I have great faith in their secret virtues. Over the principal fountain is a temple, and from it extends a covered walk. The visitors take the water early in the morning, and, as it is too hot to drink off at once, they walk up and down, glass in hand, sipping as they go. Near by is the garden where, under shade-trees and by the side of fountains, they sit and chat, or listen to sweet music which the band discourses. As I was lounging here, a young Englishman was helped in by his sisters, and he was placed near me, so that I heard all their conversation concerning his progress toward being cured. Then a lady on two crutches hobbled in, and, arranging herself as comfortably as her evident lameness would permit, sought a little rest from pain. An elderly man with his leg in splinters had two servants to hold him up, and his condition seemed to suggest that the waters were sought even for the benefit of broken limbs. The variety of diseases is not so great perhaps as at other springs; but the gouty, the lame, and the halt, seem to lie around among these orange-trees, flowery shrubs, gravel walks, and cool shades. But by far the greater part of the visitors to the springs come for pleasure only. There is a large Kurhaus, in which are rooms for concerts and balls, for reading and conversation, and in the court a beautiful garden, into which subscribers are admitted. There the ladies take their work or their book, and, around little tables on which is a cup of tea or glass of light wine, they spend the afternoon, the gentlemen smoking if they please, and an orchestra of splendid performers playing. It is a scene of social and elegant ease, the dolce far niente to perfection, with really more enjoyment in it than is often to be found where people have nothing to do. There is no gambling here, and that drives off a class of men and women that infest every watering-place where gaming-tables are licensed. The company is therefore select, compared with the Badens and Homburg. And the baths are splendid. They are furnished at all the hotels, and there are establishments specially fitted up for them. Into one of these I went to enjoy the luxury. Each bath has a dressing-room adjoining it, out of which when ready you go down four or five stone steps into a large cemented bath, while the water from two large pipes is pouring in. On a stone bench at one end of the bath you sit down till the water comes up to your chin, and then it ceases to flow. At first the smell of sulphur is strong; but this ceases to be disagreeable. The temperature is perfect, the water abundant, plenty of towels, and a sheet besides, and the price is about 25 cents. I enjoyed it exceedingly, and commend it before all other bathing establishments this side of Turkey.
The antiquary finds much to interest him in this old town. It is something to be where Charlemagne was born and buried, and to see the works of his mighty hand; to visit the town-house, a tower of which still bears the name of Granus, a brother of Nero, who is said to have built it, and to have founded the city 124 years after Christ. In this house is a great hall, where for many successive centuries the Emperors of Germany were crowned. In front of it is a statue of Charlemagne, and the priests carry a silver bust of him in their septennial procession, with a bit of his skull in the top of it.
CHAPTER XXI.
FRANKFORT.
WITH faces at last fairly turned towards Russia, we stopped to rest for a day at the old town of Frankfort—the Ford of the Franks. Towards evening I wandered out to an old graveyard.
Like some in our own cities, it had ceased to be used for interments, and its walks and shade and vacant squares had become places of recreation for the children of the town. The gates were never shut, and, indeed, the walls were broken, so that it was a public square for the living rather than a quiet resting-place for the dead. A party of little folks were amusing themselves with children’s plays, and I paused in my solitary stroll to see them go through the old-time game of “Oats, peas, beans, and barley grow,” the same that our children from generation to generation play with so much zest on the grass or the carpet at home. It was pleasant to know that the young ones, in another language, were singing the same simple song that millions on the other side of the sea have sung and will sing in their childish glee. It was a queer place for children to make a playground. Our children would not fancy it. The Germans have more pleasing associations with the burial-places of their dead than we have. They indulge in cheerful sentimentalism more than we do, in this direction. These old graves are covered with flowering shrubs; some of them are cared for by the children or friends of the sleepers who have been here so many years that their names might be forgotten but for the tombstones. I read the inscriptions on many, and sought and found names familiar in history.
One grave was covered with wreaths and flowers. Yet it was an old grave, and evidently some special interest attached to it. I drew near and read in German,—