Thus four of the great religious orders of the church are represented before the Virgin’s throne—the Carmelite, Dominican, Franciscan, and Jesuit. Each chapel, sacred to some holy mystery, has its beautiful altar, its carved oaken confessional, its circular golden chandelier, its station of the cross, its banners, and its statues.
The carved oak pulpit on the left side of the nave was given by the Bishop of Marseilles.
The windows of the side chapels, that await a donor, will depict the history of Notre Dame de Lourdes, beginning with the first apparition and ending with the consecration of the church. And the clerestory windows will represent the history of the devotion to the Immaculate Conception. The decoration of the church is by no means complete. It is to be in harmony with the architecture, so pure in outline and light in form. In the seventy-six arcatures of the triforium the saints most devoted to the Immaculate Conception are to be represented on a gilt ground.
To see this beautiful church crowded with devout pilgrims, priests at every altar of the fifteen chapels, a grand service going on in the choir with all the solemn pomp displayed in great cathedrals, the numerous clergy in the richest vestments, and to hear the grand music of Palestrina executed with perfect harmony and exquisite taste—the whole congregation heartily joining in the chants, and the peal of the trumpets contrasting admirably with their earnest voices—is to the ravished soul like a vision of the heavenly Jerusalem. The lofty arches seem to sway with the undulations of the music, sometimes soft as the murmur of a rivulet, and again as deep as a mountain torrent falling over rocks. The eye is never weary of gazing at this fair temple with its pure outlines, so harmonious in all its parts, the soft light coming in floods through the lofty windows and mingling with the brilliancy of the lights and flowers; the immense oriflammes hanging from the arches to give testimony to the glory of the Immaculate Conception and the Pontiff who crowned that glory; the mysterious words on the wall that fell from the smiling lips of the Virgin in the grotto; and the Most Pure herself, unveiled to all eyes, standing in the midst of all this splendor above the altar, in a golden atmosphere, raising heavenward her look of inspiration, her hands joined in prayer, her heart swelling with love—adoring love for Him who dwells in the tabernacle; and maternal love for her children gathered around the fountain opened for the salvation of the world. O Immaculate One! we here feel thy sweet presence, and the creative power of thy word: “Go, tell the priests I wish a chapel to be built on this spot.”
Never was greater miracle wrought by humbler instrumentality—never was the Divine Hand more manifest than in the upspringing of this mountain chapel—the lily of the Immaculate Conception, sweetest flower of this age of Mary. Human intelligence is confounded at what has been effected by the mouth of a poor peasant girl of this obscure valley. It grasps at the assurance of faith in Mary who has wrought it. Before her the Gave that beat against the cliff has fallen back—image of the torrent that approached Mary at the moment of her creation, and, just as she was about to receive the fatal stain, the wave of corruption, that bears all of us poor children of Eve on its impure waters, fell back before the ark of the new covenant, Fœderis Arca.
The very cliffs have bowed down at her presence, and these stones, these walls, these columns, these arches, and the fountain of indisputable potency that has sprung out of the bowels of the earth, bear witness to her wonderful apparitions and power.
One of the most imposing spectacles at Lourdes is a procession of pilgrims, especially when seen, as we saw one, from the mount above coming from the town—a very forest of crosses, banners, and lanterns, borne by thousands of people with that slow, measured, solemn, harmonious step that is in itself a prayer. We thought of good Mother Hallahan and her delight in nine miles of prayer. Here were whole leagues of praise.
“On the ear
Swells softly forth some virgin hymn;
The white procession windeth near,