In one of the side chapels is the tomb of an old bishop of the middle ages, in a niche of the wall. On it he lies carven in stone, with the mitre on his head, and clad in his pontifical vestments, and his hands folded in prayer.
"Still praying in thy sleep
With lifted hands and face supine,
Meet attitude of calm and reverence deep,
Keeping thy marble watch in hallowed shrine."
The cathedral of St. André is another of these venerable monuments of the past. Founded in the fourth century, destroyed by the barbarians, restored by Charlemagne, and again ruined by the Normans, it was rebuilt in the eleventh century, and consecrated by Pope Urban II., in 1096. I went there at an early hour to offer up my thanksgiving for the happy end of this stage of my journey. The canons were just chanting the hours, which reverberated among the light arches with fine effect. Masses were being offered in various chapels, and there were worshippers everywhere. I was particularly struck with the devout appearance of a venerable old man in one of the dimmest and most remote chapels, enveloped in a hooded cloak, with the capuche drawn over his head. He looked as if his soul, as well as his body, was almost done with time.
Through all these aisles and oratories, which whispering lips filled with the perfume of prayer streaming through the old windows came the morning sun,
"Whose beams, thus hallowed by the scenes they pass,
Tell round the floor each parable of glass."
I can still see the purple light filling the chapel of the Sacred Heart and ensanguining the uplifted Host.
"A sweet religious sadness, like a dove,
Broods o'er this place. The clustered pillars high
Are roséd o'er by the morning sky:
And from the heaven-hued windows far above,
Intense as adoration, warm as love,
A purple glory deep is seen to lie.
Turn, poet, Christian, now the serious eye,
Where, in white vests, a meek and holy band,
Chanting God's praise in solemn order, stand.
O hear that music swell far up and die!
Old temple, thy vast centuries seem but years,
Where wise and holy men lie glorified!
Our hearts are full, our souls are occupied,
And piety has birth in quiet tears!"
And all the worshippers in this church were turned toward the holy East, whence cometh the Son of Man. The glory of the Lord came into the house by the way of the gate whose prospect is toward the East. I like this orientation of churches now too much neglected. The old symbolic usages of the church should be perpetuated. This turning to the East in prayer was at one age the mark of a true believer, distinguishing him from those who had separated from the church. True, some of the old basilicas at Rome and elsewhere have their altars at the west, but, according to the ritual of such churches, the priest turns toward the people, thus looking to the East. Cassiodorus and others say that our Lord on the cross had his face toward the west. So, in directing our thoughts and hearts to Calvary, it is almost instinctive to look to the East.
"With hands outstretched, bleeding and bare,
He doth in death his innocent head recline,
Turning to the west. Descending from his height,
The sun beheld, and veiled him from the sight.
Thither, while from the serpent's wound we pine,
To thee, remembering that baptismal sign,
We turn and drink anew thy healing might."
Let us, then, place, as Wordsworth says,