In a glass case above the altar, is deposited this far-famed effigy of the Holy Galilean virgin—a hideous female negro, carved in wood, and holding an infant Jesus in her arms of the same hue and material; and exhibited in its extremity of ugliness by the reflected glare of the silver and diamonds, and gems of every description, by which she is surrounded. Chests, mimic altars, models of ships, crowns and sceptres, chalices and crosses of gold and silver and enamel, and enriched with
Turkish blue and emerald green,
and every jewel of every land, lie amassed in gorgeous profusion in the adjoining cases, and seemed to realize the fabled treasures of the preadamite Sultans. Boasting themselves as gifts of gratitude or invocation from emperors and popes, kings, princes, palsgraves, and all the other minor thrones and dominions of the earth, these splendid offerings form the most plausible illustration of the miraculous power attributed to the image of the Black Lady, which has been deposited in its actual abode since the year of Grace 696. In the course of the Thirty Years' War, this important relic and its treasury were twice removed into the city of Salzburg, for security from the Swedish invaders; and twice brought back in solemn triumph to their ancient sanctuary.
But a mightier charm than that of gems or metals, the most precious or the most beautiful, connects itself with the chapel of Altenötting—its association with historical names of all ages, from Charlemagne and Otto of Wittelsbach, whose monuments we find inscribed in Runic characters, to Pius the Sixth, whose dedication, "O clemens, O pia Virgo Oettingana!" is graven in a "fine Roman hand." It contains sepulchral vaults of the families of Wallenstein, Tilly, Montecuculi, besides those of divers electors, archbishops, and archdukes, whose titles speak far less stirringly to the heart; altogether forming an illustration of the past, which brings the dark ages in living majesty before our eyes.
Alternately dazzled and disgusted by this fruitless waste of splendour, this still more fruitless waste of national credulity, I was pondering over the domestic virtues of a certain "Franziska Barbara, Countess of Tilly," as recorded over her grave, when the chants of the priests, who had been engaged in the celebration of mass before the altar, suddenly ceased; and, as the last fumes of the incense circled upwards to the blackened roof, there arose another and a solitary voice, evidently of lay intonation, and deepened by that persuasive earnestness of devotion which, like an electric chain, connects in holy feeling all sects of the Christian church. It spoke in the fulness of gratitude, and in the humbleness of prayer; and although the dialect was tinged with village barbarism, and its thankfulness addressed to the Black Virgin, I heard in its simple solemnity only the beauty of holiness; and, overlooking the visible shrine, beheld in its ultimate object the tribunal of divine mercy!
The devout speaker was one of a peasant family who had entered the chapel unobserved, during my contemplation of its glittering decorations. He was apparently a Bavarian farmer, somewhat advanced in years, and wearing, in addition to his richly-substantial holiday attire, a deep green shade over his eyes, which accounted for the character of his thanksgivings to the miraculous image. "I thank thee, O most benign and saintly Maria!" had been the tenour of his prayer, "for the scattered and glorious gifts of Heaven, which had become as vain things to my soul, till thy grace renewed them in its knowledge. I thank thee for the summer skies and the green pastures—for the footsteps which no longer crave a helping hand—for the restored faces of my beloved ones—and, above all, O holiest Virgin! I glorify thy name in gratitude for the precious means by which the blessing of sight hath been again vouchsafed me!"
This last mode of expression excited my curiosity, and when the little group of votaries had concluded their ceremonies, had affixed their consecrated tapers at the shrine, and deposited their oblations with its officiating priests, I followed their joyful footsteps out of the chapel, and was again struck by the delicious transition from the heated and incense-laden atmosphere of its interior, to the pure, balmy April air without, gushing with the sweetness of the passing shower.
The ceremonies of the day were still far from their conclusion. The historical painter of Altenötting was in attendance in the arcade, bearing the votive picture which was to perpetuate the latest miracle of the Black Lady; and as far as I could observe or ascertain of the sacerdotal hangman of the consecrated gallery, the oldest and most weather-stained of the pictures was made to yield precedence to the new comer. Having profited by a stranger's privilege, and the English garb, which is held as sacred as a herald's tabard in many a foreign land, to unite myself to the little group, and address some casual inquiries to its frank and overjoyous members—old Philipp Stroer himself, the hero of the day, deigned to take the picture from the hands of the sacristan, and to ciceronize for my especial edification. I trust his restored vision was not yet sufficiently acute to admit of his noting the smile which, in spite of my better will, stole over my face, as I contemplated the phenomenon of bad taste, and worse execution, which he thrust upon my observation. It represented his worthy but very unpicturesque self in the hands of an oculist, and the endurance of a cataract. The eyes of his surrounding family were fixed with eager interest upon the event of the operation. "And what," said I, anxious to make some sympathy in this domestic crisis—"and what is the name of the surgeon whose efforts have been blessed by the protection of the Black Lady?"
"The surgeon!"
"Yes; the oculist who is represented in the picture."