The shelter of my loving heart!
I’ll spread thee there a couch of rest,
And deem myself supremely blest,
If I may evermore abide
Loving, belovèd, at thy side.
While we have to treat rather of hymns than of hymn-writers in dealing with the Roman Breviary, there is much of personal interest attaching to the Breviary of Paris, its great rival in hymnological interest. A slight revision of the hymns of this Breviary was effected in 1527—of which the Urbs Jerusalem beata is a type—and only with the idea of correcting corruptions of the text. But the Roman revision of 1568-1631 affected the Gallican Church’s services very slightly. In no part of the Roman Catholic world were the rights of the national Church guarded so carefully as in France, until Napoleon bargained them away by the Concordat of 1801. The French bishops and monastic orders continued to retain their old service-books long after uniformity had been established, under plea of unity, in other parts of the Church; and they made such alterations in them as they thought necessary to the edification of their people.
It was the Order of Cluny which first took steps toward the substitution of new hymns for those whose use had been sanctioned by long tradition. The general chapter of that branch of the great Benedictine family in 1676-78 charged Paul Rabusson and Claude de Vert with the preparation of a new Breviary. On Rabusson, who was teaching theology in the monastery of St. Martin des Champs in Paris, the labor chiefly fell. He applied to Claude Santeul, a pensioner of the ecclesiastical seminary attached to the Abbey of St. Magloire, asking him to prepare the new hymns. Claude Santeul (Santolius Maglorianus) agreed to do so, and made some progress in the work. He finished six hymns, which were inserted in the new Breviary, and at his death (1684) he left two manuscript volumes of unfinished hymns among his papers. But he found that his being selected had excited the jealousy of his younger brother, Jean Santeul, a canon of the monastery of St. Victor (Santolius Victorinus), who already was recognized as the finest, but by no means the most edifying of the Latin poets of the France of his time.
Claude gladly gave place to his brother—who was accepted by the Cluny Fathers—in the hope that the work of writing hymns would divert him from the pagan poetizing, which was regarded as unbecoming to his cloth. Jean Santeul is the oddest figure in the annals of Latin hymnology, which is saying a good deal. He is “a man of whom it is hard to speak without falling into caricature,” Sainte-Beuve says (Causeries de Lundi, XII., 20-56). He combined the talent of a poet of nature’s making with the simplicity of a child and the vanity and wit of a genuine Frenchman. He recalls La Fontaine by many of his traits, and, under the name of “Theodas,” he has furnished La Bruyère with the materials for one of the cleverest portraits in the Caractères (1687). His mode of life was a scandal to De Rance and other severe Churchmen, who were laboring for the restoration of strict monastic discipline. His love of good living and the charm of his society and his talk carried him off from his monastery and his hours, sometimes for weeks together. His Latin inscriptions, which adorned the fountains, bridges, and public monuments of Paris, at once gave him recognition as the poet laureate and pensioner of the grande monarque, and as a priest whose poetry dealt more in the pagan deities than in any distinctively Christian references. He was not an immoral man in any gross sense. Even as a bon vivant, he does not seem to have transgressed what were recognized as the bounds of sobriety, and his poetry is as free as was his life from licentiousness. But he was frivolous, gay, reckless, and as worldly as was consistent with his being a grown-up child. Everybody, even severe and silent De Rance at La Trappe, liked him, but everybody shook his head over the inconsistency of his life with his monastic vocation, and none more sorrowfully than his good brother Claude at St. Magloire.
Now at last there seemed to be the opportunity to reclaim him by occupying his mind and his art with serious subjects, and by bringing him into edifying associations with good men. That he was not enough of a theologian to discharge the task satisfactorily of himself, was rather an advantage from this point of view. The eloquent and learned Jansenist, Nicolas le Tourneux, undertook the work of coaching him. The partnership worked reasonably well. Of course hymns produced by this kind of division of labor, in which one took care of the sense and another of the expression, have the defects of their method. But Le Tourneux was as careful of the poet as of his verse. His severe eye detected the play of Santeul’s vanity even in the work of writing hymns. “Reflect, my dear brother,” he wrote, “that while in the visible and militant Church one may sing the praises of God with an impure heart and defiled lips, it will not be so in heaven. You have burnt incense in your verse, but there was strange fire in the censer. Vanity furnishes your motive where it ought to be charity.” He objects to Santeul’s calling himself “the poet of Jesus Christ,” while he admits that vain glory leads him to write hymns. “If you and I were all we ought to be,” wrote the severe Jansenist, “we would quake with fear at having dared, you to sing and I to preach of the holiness of God, without a right sense of it. We shall be only too happy if He pardon our sermons and our verses.” Perhaps the severity was needed and did good.
So Le Tourneux suggested and all but wrote the prayer in which Santeul dedicated his hymns to our Lord: “Receive what is Thine; forgive what is mine. Thine is whatever I have uttered that is good and holy. Mine that I have handled Thy good things unworthily, and not from desire to please Thee, but from an undue pride of poetry, of which I am ashamed. Thou hast given me songs to praise Thee. Give me prayers, give me tears to wash away the stains of a life less than Christian.”