"These bells have been anointed
And baptized with holy water."
Perhaps you do not know that in the ceremony of consecrating a bell, the bishop prays that, as the voice of Christ appeased the troubled waters, God would endow the sound of the bell with power to avert the malign influence of the great enemy; that it may possess the power of David's harp, which dispelled the dark cloud from the soul of Saul; and that at its sound hosts of angels may surround the assembled multitudes, preserve their souls from temptation and defend their bodies from all danger. The smaller bells are rung daily for the Angelus and ordinary occasions. The tones of the great Bourdon are reserved for the grand festivals of Christmas, Easter, etc. I was curious to see them, for they are like friends from whom we have had many kind tokens, but have never met. They are always ringing above the priory; and their tones say so many things to our hearts—solemn and funereal, or tender, or joyful. "There is something beautiful in the church-bell," says Douglas Jerrold—"beautiful and hopeful. They talk to the high and low, rich and poor, in the same voice. There is a sound in them that should scare away envy and pride and meanness of all sorts from the heart of man; that should make him look on the world with kind, forgiving eyes; that should make the earth itself seem, to him at least, a holy place. Yes, there is a whole sermon in the very sound of the church-bells, if we only have the ears to understand it." As Longfellow says:
"For the bells themselves are the best of preachers; Their brazen lips are learned teachers. From their pulpits of stone in the upper air, Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw, Shriller than trumpets under the law, Now a sermon and now a prayer. The clamorous hammer is the tongue; This way, that way, beaten and swung, That from mouth of brass, as from mouth of gold, May be taught the Testaments, New and Old: And above it the great cross-beam of wood Representeth the holy rood, Upon which, like the bell, our hopes are hung. And the wheel wherewith it is swayed and rung Is the mind of man, that round and round Sways, and maketh the tongue to sound! And the rope, with its twisted cordage three, Denoteth the scriptural Trinity Of morals, and symbols, and history; And the upward and downward motions show That we touch upon matters high and low: And the constant change and transmutation Of action and of contemplation, Downward, the Scripture brought from on high; Upward, exalted again to the sky; Downward, the literal interpretation, Upward, the vision and mystery!"
In the undercroft of the cathedral reposes, among other saints, the body of St. Léothade. He was of royal blood, being a near relative of Eudes, Duke of Aquitaine, who was of the race of Clotaire II. He was also related to Charles Martel, and to the well-known sylvan saint, Hubert, who was contemporary with St. Léothade, and a native of this part of France. St. Léothade embraced the monastic state early in life, and, after being abbot at Moissac, was called to govern this diocese, which he did for twenty-seven years. In the wars between Charles Martel and Eudes he retired into Burgundy, his native place, where he died at the beginning of the eighth century. His body was reclaimed by the Auscitains. His tomb is all sculptured with the symbols of our Saviour—the fish, wine, etc.
St. Léothade is invoked in various diseases, particularly for epilepsy.
Through the kindness of the mère prieure I had the privilege of assisting at the office of Holy Week at St. Mary's Cathedral. I witnessed all those affecting rites from the jubé, or rood-loft, which is reached by a dark, winding stairway in one of the huge pillars. My position was one of seclusion, and yet overlooked both the choir and the nave. To fully appreciate the ceremonies of the church, one must witness them in one of these old churches of the middle ages, to which they seem adapted. The long procession of white-robed clergy, through the forest of columns, with palm branches in their hands; "Hosanna to the son of David!" resounding through the arches; the tapers, rich vestments, the heavenly light streaming through the stained-glass windows, not dimly, but like a very rainbow of hope encircling us all—impress the heart with sentiments of profound devotion.
I was particularly struck by the vivid picture of the Passion given in the gospel of Palm-Sunday, as sung by the choir. One priest chanted the historical parts in a recitative way; a second, the words of our Lord; and a third, the words of the disciples and others. The insolent cries of the multitude, the confident tones of St. Peter, the loud bold tones of Judas, were well reproduced; while the sacred words of Christ were repeated in the clearest, calmest, most subdued and plaintive of accents, that sank into my soul and moved me to tears. That voice seemed to sweep over the sea of surging hearts that filled the church, like the very voice of Jesus calming the tempest on the lake! It rung in my heart for days. It rings there yet, a sermon more powerful than any man could preach. When the priest comes to the words, "and gave up the ghost," the sight of the vast multitude prostrating to the ground is most impressive.
The gospel of the Passion, succeeding the triumphant procession with the palm branches, becomes doubly impressive by the contrast. "Oh! what a contrast," cries St. Bernard, "between 'Tolle, tolle, crucifige eum,' and 'Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini, Hosanna in Excelsis!' What a contrast between 'King of Israel,' and 'We have no king but Caesar!' Between the green branches and the cross! Between the flowers and the thorns! Between taking off their garments to cast before him, and stripping him of his own and casting lots for them!"
The nave was one forest of waving green branches, and the common people seemed to enter into and enjoy the ceremonies very heartily. These grand services give such a vivid idea of the great events of the life of Christ that they must be very beneficial to the people, who come in throngs to witness them; and there are no pews here, with their invidious distinctions, to shut them out. The peasant and the nobleman are brought on a level in that place where alone is to be found true democracy—the Church.
The archbishop presided at these ceremonies, a venerable, austere-looking prelate, who moved about with gravity, always attended by his servant, a pale, cadaverous-looking man in black, with a white cravat, reminding me so forcibly of one of our New England ministers that I never could resist a smile when my eye fell on him, as he obediently followed the dignified prelate.