Chapter V: Electioneering (2)

Of all traits in the national character, their universal civility astonishes an American or Englishman, accustomed as we are to the every-man-for-himself principle; yet how few we meet who do not consider the Spaniards as a treacherous, revengeful, and bloodthirsty race! Our own statistics, we fear, would furnish but a sorry set-off against theirs for crime in every phase; and particularly for the most cowardly, brutal, and premeditated assaults and assassinations, ending too often with the escape of the culprit. The quarrels in Spain between man and man arise generally from some love affair or political difference, very rarely from money. Two peasants are drinking in a tavern, the wine excites their fiery blood; one has lost his _novia_, the other has won her; a blow or an insult is given; they draw their knives, and adjourn to fight--“just like gentlemen.” It is, in fact, a duel, which common-sense has not yet been able to laugh out of Spain. No pecuniary damages, won by the cold arguments that sway a court of law, can heal the wound of honor in the chivalrous breast of the Spaniard; and not a few examples have we lately had of lives lost in this way. One was most tragic in its end as in all its bearings; I allude to the duel between Don Enrique de Bourbon and Montpensier. And surely never was presented on the stage a scene more dramatic or striking. Don Enrique was by profession a naval officer, high in the service of his royal relative, Queen Isabella, a young, gallant, and efficient sailor, with a promising future opening before him. He was happy in the love of a lady destined as all understood to be his; when suddenly Montpensier stepped in and won her, scarcely by force of personal attractions, for he was already well advanced in years; but the marriage was a closer link to the throne. Don Enrique vowed the death of the man who had crossed his life at the threshold. But his schemes of vengeance were baffled; an order came to quit the country, ostensibly for having joined in conspiracy against the throne. Deprived at once of his love, his command, and his country, life was closed to him. From his retirement he sent challenge after challenge to Montpensier, and vilified him even in the public press, as he could not force a response from him; but to no purpose. Montpensier, high in favor at court, secure in possession and in power, could safely affect to despise the ravings of a madman. By-and-by came the revolution which drove Isabella out. Now was Don Enrique’s chance, and he hastened to seize it. As expulsion under the queen’s reign was a virtue in the eyes of the new government, he applied for restoration to his country and his rank in the navy. The first request was granted, the second denied; as the government had proclaimed an end to the Bourbon race, no member of that race could take rank under them, unless he renounced his title. Here again he traced the hand of Montpensier. If he could have nothing else, at least he would have revenge, being now in the same city with the man who had crossed him at every step of his career. He sent his last challenge, publishing it at the same time in the press, enumerating the occasions on which he had sent similar messages, which had ever been met by the silence of fear. He heaped insults upon him, apostrophizing him as a “pastillero frances,” a fellow ready to soil his hands with the pettiest and meanest intrigue. Montpensier was at the time a candidate for the Spanish throne; for the kingship of a people in whose eyes honor was ever dearer than life; further silence would ruin his prospects; so at last he was forced out of his reserve, and, in a letter that sounded well, accepted the challenge as one which a man of honor could not pass over in silence, disclaiming at the same time any antagonism to its author personally; if there was any justice in what he said, it was the result of accident; in fact, leaving people to understand that he never troubled his head about the man. They met on a cold gray morning, and the chances of success leaned decidedly on the side of Don Enrique. A young, bold man, to whom deadly weapons had been playthings from his infancy, he was urged on by a life of hate to slay the man who had blighted that life and darkened its promising opening; his opponent was a middle-aged man, near-sighted, who bore the reputation of a _littérateur_ rather than a fighter. Both felt that perhaps a crown as well as a life hung on the trigger. Scarce was the word given to fire when the bullet of Don Enrique brushed his foe, and Montpensier’s lost itself in the air. A second shot, and they still stood face to face uninjured. “Està afinando”--“He is getting closer,” whispered the prince to his second, as he took the last pistol from his hand. The words are remarkable as expressing the coolness of the man, whose eye took in everything at such a moment, and perhaps something more. At the next discharge, the bullet of the man who, whether designedly or not, had met him and beaten him at all points, pierced his breast; he sprang into the air, fell forward, and rolled contorted on the ground, a corpse--a theme for novelist as well as moralist: it looked like fatality.

But from such sad scenes we are happy to turn to others more worthy of our attention and more characteristic of the nation at large. The thing that of all others cannot fail to strike the visitor is the intense religion displayed everywhere. “Ay, Maria!” “Por Dios!”--“For God’s sake”--“Ay, Dios mio,” are the expressions that buzz around our ears all day. The holy name is a household word with them, pronounced at all times and on all occasions, but with a reverence that never shocks. When they wish something done, they say “Dios quiere”--“God grant it”; when they bid you good-by, “Adios--Vaya Usted con Dios--Queda Usted con Dios--Que Dios te guarda”--“Go with God--Rest with God--May God guard thee.” They speak of the blessed sacrament as “Su Majestad”--“his majesty,” of the Blessed Virgin always as “la Santissima Virgen”--“the most Holy Virgin.” The graveyard is “el campo santo”--“the holy field”: so like the old Catholic “God’s acre” that Longfellow loves. When they wish to express intense horror of a thing, they make the sign of the cross on their foreheads, lips, and breast, and then in the air, as though to place that invincible sign between them and the object of their abhorrence. The vast majority of the towns and villages are named after the saints, and each one has its special patron as well as the patron of the district. And that intense faith in intercessory prayer to some special saint which holy writers urge us to cultivate is born in them. On the festival of Good Friday throughout Spain, the municipality and gentlemen of the towns walk dressed in evening costume side by side with the poor. Not a vehicle is to be seen in the street: all the world is there to watch and pray. The new government, Prim’s, gave the order for coaches to run as usual on Good Friday, in outrage of a custom immemorial in the nation, and an honor to them as to all Christendom of whatever creed. But the coachmen as well as their masters proved better Christians than their rulers; and on the day in question not a conveyance was to be seen, save a solitary coach, which the populace immediately seized, compelling its occupant to descend, who proved to be a scared member of the diplomatic body. The celebration of Holy Week in Seville attracts the world thither.

The modern churches in Spain, particularly in Madrid, though for the most part spacious and lofty, do not impress one with their beauty. To those accustomed to associate their ideas of religion with the Gothic style of architecture, the altars will not be pleasing. Spiral pillars wriggle to the roof, inwrought and gorgeously painted. The vases are filled with silver and gold filigree work wrought to imitate flowers. There are many figures, small or large, of _el niño Jesu_, or _la Santissima Virgen_, or the saints, not always displaying the most finished art, decked out with a costume of sober black or gorgeous color and texture, glittering with gold and precious stones and ornaments of choice and antique workmanship. Little thanksgiving offerings surround them. Such things as these look like superstition to the cold eye of a man to whom faith is folly and reverence ignorance. But there is something powerful in the simple, earnest belief of the people who pray before them, and are content to be thus reminded of the great and good God and Virgin Mother, who are willing to receive the offerings of the meanest; a reverend familiarity with God is thus created which those people bear about with them. These men and women go into the church _to pray_: their very costume is befitting the sanctuary; and there is very little of that newspaper religion which some of our weekly journals piously advocate by so carefully announcing “where the best dresses and prettiest faces are to be seen.” On the walls hang magnificent paintings. The treasures of Murillo are in the cathedral of Seville. They were placed there by his own hand, having been painted for their several positions that the light might fall on them in such or such a manner. And it is not unpleasant to think of the sun rising and falling day after day as though in obedience to the great master who has passed away, bringing out their beauties faithfully in accordance with his wish. The construction of the cathedral itself is a triumph of architecture. Not a stone has shifted from its place since it was first laid there: there is no sinking or rising in the floor: and to-day you may pass your cane over the surface and not a joint offers the slightest obstruction.

The very names of the people are taken from religion and the mysteries of religion in the same spirit with which they named their discoveries after Santa Cruz, San Domingo, San José, Trinidad. Among men’s Christian and surnames we continually find Jesu, Jesu Maria, Juan de Dios, Santa Cruz, Salvador; among the women, Concepcion, Dolores--a sweet name after the Mother of Sorrows, Maria de los Angeles, and the like.

The very streets and the public places are christened in the same way; and the ships baptized and launched with religious ceremonies, a custom that prevails also in France.

They preserve the old gospel use of the word woman. That is the title by which the husband addresses his wife as often as any other. She calls him _hijo_, son, or _hombre_, man. “_Hija de mi alma_,” daughter of my soul, is also very common. Ceremony is only employed with strangers; _tu_, thou, is the form in which intimate friends are always addressed. After becoming acquainted, you call the lady of the house and her daughters, whether grown up or young, by their maiden names simply. It is amusing to hear little ones who can scarcely lisp address each as _señor_ and _señora_.

They have a fair supply of newspapers, and very able ones, in Spain; though, as usual, those that enjoy the widest circulation at present are devoted to the dissemination of false principles. They are cried out in the streets not by newsboys as with us, but principally by old blind men, who stand in the most public places with a tablet of the latest news on their breasts, and having got their lesson by rote spout away untiringly.

The club is becoming a very favorite institution, and is, in fact, the stronghold and rendezvous of political parties. There is a very famous one in Madrid, which numbers among its members such men as Castelar, Moret, and others. They meet sometimes for public discussion; and those great orators rise there to propound their theories as earnestly as in the Cortes.

They have a code of intercourse worthy of imitation. When a Spanish family takes up its quarters at a hotel or in a new place, the neighbors, though perfect strangers, call, leave their cards, and go away. If their acquaintance is desired, they are waited upon and conversation ensues; if not, the stranger simply returns his card in the same manner as the other was received; and no slight or grievance is felt or intended.

The amusements are various. Apart from the opera, theatre, and those common to all nations, they are very fond of an indoor game called _volante_, which is simply battledoor and shuttlecock; ladies and gentlemen play at it together. There is also a very favorite game of cards, _tresillo_, to which we have no equivalent. The climate compels the Spanish women to lead a more indoor life than with us. The men are fond of riding, hunting, and shooting. They sit as erect on horseback as statues; and the army officers are very fond of displaying the motions rather than the speed of their steeds. Mules are in great demand; for the roads in Spain, except in the neighborhood of the great towns, are very bad; mere bridle-paths most of them. Seated in a vehicle that would be a treasure in an art museum for antiquity, construction, and shape, with a team of six or eight of these animals to jolt you anywhere, is a position more than pleasant. The jingle of the little bells with which the harness is adorned, the cracking of the driver’s whip, the tones in which he endeavors to animate the vicious brutes, now cajoling them in accents that might win the heart of a maiden, again pouring forth a volley of imprecations on their heads and tails and pedigree, as though they were human, is a study. You can never trust these animals, and it is always the safer plan to give their hoofs what a sailor would call sea-room. An archbishop, passing along the streets one day, suddenly came upon a string of them, and as suddenly crossed to the other side of the street. “O Señor Arzobispo,” said the muleteer, “you need not be frightened. These are harmless _animalitos_.”

“Yes, I know they are harmless,” replied his grace, “and that is the reason I cross here; if they were not, I should go to the next street.”

This fact of the roads being so bad and the intercommunication so deficient, coupled with tales of brigandage, gives strangers the idea that travelling in Spain is very insecure. We might pass from end to end of the land, unknown and unarmed, with far greater safety than during a five minutes’ walk through many a street in New York or London after nightfall. We had an instance of brigandage and its treatment in Spain during Prim’s _régime_, a time when the country was as convulsed as at present. Encouraged, no doubt, by the lamentable success of a similar exploit in Greece, some miscreants carried off a merchant from Gibraltar, and demanded a round ransom as the forfeit of his life. Prim, without a moment’s hesitation as to the nice question of treating with brigands, or a thought of where the ransom was to come from, paid it, and sent four of the civil guard to follow up the robbers, which they did so successfully that they shot them all and retook their booty. We have not heard of brigandage since in Spain, notwithstanding the highly touched pictures presented, the other day, of an attack on a railway train, accompanied by smoke and powder, and brigands in the stage costume of centuries back.

This civil guard is an excellent institution. The body is recruited from the best ranks of the soldiery. It is a distinction to be admitted among them, which engenders an _esprit de corps_ that makes them the terror of the wrong-doer and the right arm of order. We ourselves might take a lesson from the incident mentioned above, if we are to credit the reports of the Lowery gang.

They have but one great line of railroad in Spain, which runs through the country from north to south. The train creeps along at a steady thirty miles an hour, without a moment’s variation. To a stranger, wishing to catch a glimpse of the country, this is highly advantageous; as he is not whirled away at a rate that presents to his anxious eye trees, houses, mountains, streams, in a phrenzied panorama. For our present notions of commerce it may be too slow, and a man in a hurry feels half inclined to get out and walk; but as a set-off against this, the Spaniards pride themselves on not having had a single accident accompanied by loss of life since the railroad was first started. You are rolled through the fertile plains and swelling uplands of Andalusia, rich in corn and wine and oil; through fields, and orange and olive groves, dotted with white towns and modest villages, where the church-tower ever soars above all as a landmark. You pass Seville; and as its associations crowd upon you, fain would you linger amid the gay society of the lovely city smiling amid its groves and gardens; dreaming day by day in _las delicias_; lost amid the treasures of art that make every boy in the street an efficient critic, so accustomed is his eye to the beautiful and the true. Famous spots and historic cities greet you as you go. The Escurial looms up, a white, silent palace with deserted windows, standing out in startling relief from a semi-circle of bare mountains. Not a soul was to be seen around it; the monks had been just expelled; not a sound to break the painful silence that seemed to emanate from the gloomy pile. It stood there as the great king left it, a type of himself, out of the world in a grandeur of isolation; a something that ought to have passed away, unknown in these days. Had a troop of cavaliers with pennon and plume and glistening mail shone out a moment on the mountain-side, it would have seemed in keeping with the place rather than strange. There is almost a contrast between the ages as our little engine puffs and snorts and fumes, fretting to “go ahead” and leave it, staring out of its silent windows, unmoved, untouched by the age, which busies itself with things and not with ideas.

Before arriving at Madrid, where the train stops for a few hours, we pass through Aranjuez, the beautiful summer-palace of the late queen; with its woods and magnificent vistas and lengthening avenues, full of lovely recesses and places of cool shade. At last we are in the heart of the kingdom.

Madrid, though not very large, is a brilliant city. Its _prado_ where fashion saunters is beautifully laid out. It has a splendid museum, many churches, though none of them remarkable for beauty, and the vast palace of royalty, rich in furniture and objects of art. The houses and public buildings are lofty, the hotels many and excellent. Fountains spout in the open squares; crowds are buzzing through the streets or discussing at the _cafés_, for politics absorb the life in Madrid. The weather is treacherous, and many are carried off in a few hours by a _pulmonia_, for, as their proverb says, “The air of Madrid will not cause a leaf to flutter from the tree, but will kill a man.” Though the sky is clear and blue, and the sun shines out royally, a breeze comes down from the neighboring _sierras_, frost-laden, that pierces you through and through, and searches all your bones, and the very marrow in them; there is death in its breath. For all that, the Madrileños live a very gay life; retiring to rest generally at the small hours, and rising when they please. In the summer the city is empty, even the shopkeepers flit; for the heat is then intolerable, and they wander to San Sebastian or the south of France, or to their own watering-places, which are numerous and inferior to none.

As the train bears us further north, the scene ever varying grows more and more deserted. You close the curtains of the carriage to keep out the heat during the day, while at night you may wake amid frost and snow. The villagers and mountaineers crowd to the carriage windows at every station; old men, and dark-eyed boys, and graceful girls, with fruits and wines, and water, and milk. “Quien quiere agua? Agua fresca? Quien quiere leche? Agua como la nieve!”--“Who wants water--cool water? Who wants milk? Water cool as snow,” is the shrill cry from many throats on all sides. “Señorito, un quartito por el amor de Dios”--“A farthing, my dear little sir, for the love of God.” “Teno lastima de, un pobrescito, señorito mio, y Dios te lo pagara”--“Have pity on a poor little one, and God will repay thee,” snivels an old beggar in pitiful rags. If you listened to him for five minutes, he would treat you to a sermon on the evil of poverty and the eternal rewards of generosity, that would rival the most eloquent of preachers and charm the money out of your pockets.

Through the Pyrenees, the scenery grows wilder still and more picturesque; the construction of the railway here is a marvel of skill and enterprise. You are shot through tunnels bored through the solid rock, numbers of them of considerable length. You skirt dizzy precipices with scarce a straw between you and the dim hollows or ominous pools that sleep hundreds of feet below. Quaint little hamlets with quaint people are perched on mountain-tops or buried in pastoral nooks far away down. Tiny streamlets start out of the mountain and accompany you as you go. You can trace them as they tumble and fall, and lose themselves, and reappear with gathering volume and widening channel, till you cross them on a bridge lower down, and find them broad and powerful rivers, turning mills and humming onward to the sea. This is a great district for paper mills; you see them on every side. San Sebastian is up here, with its beautiful villas and pleasant strand at the foot of the mountain, skirted by a town increasing in wealth and importance every year. The favorite promenade is called the _Paseo de las Conchas_, “The Walk of the Shells,” a very beautiful one. It is becoming a very favorite and fashionable resort during the summer months; so much so that gamblers tried to obtain permission from the government to establish here the gambling-tables which have been banished from their own Baden Baden. Fine hotels are springing up, and there is no summer residence in Europe that would better repay a visit than this, uniting as it does the air of the sea and the mountains, where you may turn from the strand to the most pastoral of scenery, from the conventionalities of life to the rude simplicity of the Basque mountaineer.

This brings us to the frontier, and here we stop, with the consciousness of having thrown but a very fleeting glance over so vast a field, with its mines of historic wealth and troublous problems of to-day. Our object has been to display in their truer colors a people as little understood as it is studiously misrepresented by a host of writers, who forget that the pen is the handmaiden of truth.

FOOTNOTE:

[201] CATHOLIC WORLD, June, 1872.

AIX-LA-CHAPELLE.

Every summer the fashionable world must go to the baths, must drink the waters, must be refreshed after the arduous winter campaign of dining and wining, of dancing and talking, of matinées and soirées. In America, we recover our strength at Saratoga and Newport, hunt in the Adirondacks, freeze on top of the White Mountains, listen to the roar of Niagara, drink sulphur at Sharon and the Virginia Springs, and shortly, when the magnificent National Park, at the headwaters of the Yellowstone, is fenced in, we will go to sleep in a palace-car in New York, and wake up at the foot or on the top of the Rocky Mountains. I believe the park, so generously voted to a grateful country by our patriotic Congress, is in that charming vicinity.

Human nature is the same everywhere; old Europe and young America live, think, talk, have their being, in one and the same way. London and Paris, Berlin and Vienna, get tired and worn out just like Washington and New York, Boston and New Orleans. People must travel, people must have somewhere to go. Some go to Brighton, some go to Boulogne-sur-Mer, some to Ostend; lately, it is very fashionable to go to Norway, the lakes are so blue, the trees are so green, nature is so grand and beautiful; and if the trip is only continued to Lapland, the midnight sun can be seen to the greatest advantage.

But for its being a little too near Spain and its weekly--that is to say, daily--revolutions, Biarritz is charming; so is Vichy, so is Wiesbaden, so is Spa, so is Hombourg, so is Aix-la-Chapelle, where there are the hottest of hot sulphur springs, as hot as when Charlemagne loved to bathe and drink; and loved the place so well that he made it the capital of his dominions north of the Alps, raised it to the rank of second city of his empire, and built the noble cathedral which Leo III. was kind enough to come all the way from Rome to consecrate.

And in 804, when Leo III. dedicated it, according to the wish of Charlemagne, to the Blessed Virgin, in the presence of many cardinals, of 363 bishops, and numerous princes, travelling was not made easy as nowadays. There was no tunnel through Mont Cenis, but people climbed up and slid down mountains as best they could, forded rivers, and jogged along on horses or mules, or any other beast of burden that could be made to answer the purpose. Of course, society was the same then as now; there were good and bad men and women, just as now; but, judging by what we see and read of the past, there was a strong living faith, that was fonder of building up than of pulling down.

Charlemagne could invite the Pope to visit him, and consecrate his cathedral; he could look the Pope honestly in the eyes, and ask his blessing. Strong, mighty, powerful, he was an humble, obedient son of the church; his strength and might and power were used in support, in defence of that glorious Mother Church to whom he owed all that was good and great in his life.

He gave to the Pope, that he might be independent of all human control; he did not steal and insult, as a present reigning sovereign delights in doing; he did not, like a modern emperor of the French, use religion as an instrument for gaining popularity--send soldiers to Rome one day, and order them back the next, make a convention in September with a robber-king, and in October hurry off Frenchmen to retrieve the day at Mentana; but he believed and acted up to his belief. He had his faults, as all men have, but he was true to his principles, and, like all true men, died in the peace of God.

For him there was no Sedan, no Waterloo, but a glorious tomb in his own grand cathedral, and grand it is--an octagon in the Byzantine style, surrounded by numerous chapels. The rotunda is supported by pillars of polished Ravenna marble, presented by Leo III., dividing the galleries into arcades. The church was commenced in 796, and finished in 804; the works were superintended by Eginhard, the biographer of Charlemagne.

All that Rome and Ravenna could furnish of most beautiful in marble was employed in the decoration. The dome was surmounted by a globe of massive gold, the doors and balustrades were of bronze, the vases and ornaments of unparalleled magnificence. The railings of the eight arcades of the triforium, cast in bronze of four different patterns, and the doors, adorned with lions’ heads of the same material, which no longer occupy their original position, but are attached to a porch of the seventeenth century, convey a perfect idea of the state of art in the eighth century. On the right of the porch is the figure of a she-wolf, which has served as a foundation for many popular legends, but the real origin is unknown.

The arches of the gallery are adorned with thirty-two pillars of marble, granite, and porphyry, brought by Charlemagne from the Exarch’s palace at Ravenna and from Rome. The finest of these, removed by the French in 1794, were brought back in 1815, and have been repolished and replaced at the expense of the Emperor of Germany. The interior of the dome was originally adorned with mosaics, remains of which may still be seen. The cathedral was pillaged by the Normans in 881, restored by Otho III. in 983, but in all essential respects is still the church of Charlemagne.

Eastward of the old apse, Otho III. built a chapel, in which he was buried; both of these were pulled down in the fourteenth century, when the present choir, which has preserved the plan of Otho’s chapel, was erected; and his tomb is exactly beneath the present high altar. The choir is Gothic, one hundred and fourteen feet high; nothing can be more striking than the contrast between the octagon nave and the Gothic choir--so totally unlike, and still harmonizing. It is the Christian religion subduing and dominating the proud Roman Empire.

Thirty-seven emperors and eleven empresses have been crowned in this cathedral, from 831 to 1531. Ferdinand I., brother of Charles V., was the last. Since then, they were crowned at Frankfort, where the election was held. From the centre of the dome hangs a massive Gothic lustre, presented by the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa in souvenir of his coronation. The bases of the circles are engraved with groups, representing the Annunciation, Nativity, Adoration of the Magi, Crucifixion, Three Marys at the Tomb, Ascension, Descent of the Holy Ghost, and the Last Judgment. The lustre is suspended by four chains, richly chased, and united in a brass plate, on the lower side of which is engraved a figure of St. Michael.

Immediately beneath the lustre a large slab of marble bears the simple inscription, _Carolo Magno_, which covered the vault where once reposed the remains of Charlemagne. The vault below was opened by Otho III. in 997, and again by Frederick in 1165. Charlemagne, who died at Aix-la-Chapelle in 814, did not designate his burial-place, but it was thought there could be no more appropriate spot than the magnificent church which he had built in his chosen city.

His body was found seated on a throne as if alive, clothed in the imperial robes; his crown on his head, his manuscript of the Gospels on his knees, his sword, Joyeuse, was placed by his side, and his pilgrim’s pouch, which he always wore on his journeys to Rome, was suspended to his girdle. His sceptre and shield, which were of gold, and had been blessed by Leo III., were at his feet. Over all was thrown the imperial mantle, and above was erected a superb triumphal arch, on which was this epitaph:

“Ici repose le corps de Charles, grand et orthodoxe empereur, qui étendit glorieusement le royaume des Francs, et le gouverna heureusement pendant 47 ans.”

The body of Charlemagne was enshrined by order of Frederick, and the throne of white marble on which he was seated is now kept in the upper gallery of the nave, directly facing the choir; the other relics were carefully preserved, and used in the coronation of succeeding emperors of Germany. Towards the end of the last century, at the approach of the French army, they were removed to Paderborn, and returned in 1804, but not complete, as the Emperor of Germany had kept three articles which were regarded as indispensable at a coronation.

These articles were a shrine, enclosing some of the earth watered by the blood of the proto-martyr St. Stephen; the book of Gospels, found on the knees of Charlemagne, which is written on bluish bark, in characters of gold. It was with the hand on this book, and upon the shrine of St. Stephen, that the emperor made his coronation oath. The third article was the sword of Charlemagne, Joyeuse, a present from Haroun-al-Raschid, which was the sword of coronation. It was presented to the emperor by the Elector of Trèves, who invested him with it with these word: “Accipe gladium per manus Episcoporum.” At the words, “Accingere gladio tuo,” the Elector of Saxe placed it in the scabbard, and, assisted by the Elector of Cologne, girded it around the new emperor.

The emperor was by right a canon of the chapter of the cathedral, whose members obtained from Gregory V., when he visited Aix-la-Chapelle in 997, the title of cardinal-priests. In the ages of faith, the imperial dignity was semi-priestly; the emperor was considered as having charge of souls. Before the emblems of sovereign dignity were placed in his hands, he swore, with his hand upon the Gospels, fidelity to the church which had just consecrated him.

The archbishop gave him the sword “to combat the enemies of Christ”--the imperial purple symbolized “the zeal with which he should endeavor to consolidate in the empire the reign of faith and of peace”--and with the sceptre he was exhorted to become “the father of his people, the protector of the ministers of God, the defender of the widow and the orphan.” And, last of all, to seal the alliance contracted with the Holy Church, he received a portion of the sacred Host, consecrated in the pontifical Mass, the other half of which was consumed by the priest of God.

After the election of the emperor at Frankfort, the electors and the emperor elect proceeded to Aix-la-Chapelle, where the coronation took place. The emperor heard Mass in the choir of the cathedral, surrounded by his court; the people were in the nave--the octagon, built by Charlemagne; after the Mass, he was conducted up the staircase, temporarily erected from directly beneath the lustre in the centre, to the throne of Charlemagne. The electors and their suites occupied the arcades in the gallery; and there, surrounded by priests, princes, and people, the Christian emperor swore to maintain the laws of God and man.

Before signing the act of his election, the emperor confirmed all the privileges given by his predecessors to the Cathedral of Notre Dame; and then the cortége proceeded to the Hôtel de Ville, where the coronation banquet was held in the splendid hall, so beautifully restored by the King of Prussia--we beg pardon, Emperor of Germany. The Cathedral of Notre Dame was formerly exempt from ordinary episcopal jurisdiction, and from its foundation was directly under the Holy See, which privilege was confirmed in 1157 by Pope Adrian IV.

Aix-la-Chapelle is very old; it was known to the Romans under the name of Aquis Granum, and is said to have been founded in the second century. Remains of Roman baths have been discovered near the cathedral and the _Elisenbrunnen_. Burnt by the Huns in 451, it was rebuilt, and became a favorite residence of the Frankish kings. Here was Charlemagne born, April 2, 742, and here he died, January 28, 814. In 881, the town was sacked by the Normans, and at the end of the tenth century restored and enlarged by Otho III., who died here in 1002. Charlemagne surrounded the city with a wall, pierced by ten gates, which Frederick Barbarossa rebuilt and strengthened in 1187.

The good old city has seen stormy days, as in 1198 it was besieged by Otho of Brunswick, and in 1247 by William of Holland, to whom it surrendered after a siege of six months. During the middle ages, it attained great wealth by its manufacture of cloth; agencies for the sale of which were established at Venice and Antwerp in the fourteenth century. Many diets of the empire were held here; and three times, in 1668, 1748, and 1818, the diplomats of Europe met in the Hôtel de Ville to settle terms of peace and heal the wounds of war. The conferences of the congress were held in the _Krönungsaal_, a spacious saloon occupying the whole of the third floor; the former banqueting-hall after the coronations.

The Hôtel de Ville was erected on the site of the palace of the Frankish kings, in which Charlemagne was born, and the famous banqueting-hall has been adorned with splendid frescoes, done by the best artists of the Düsseldorf school, depicting scenes in the life of Charlemagne. They were painted at the command of the Emperor of Germany, and the nine frescoes represent: The Destruction of the Saxon Idols; The Battle of Cordova; The Baptism of Witikind; A Diet of the Empire; The Coronation of Charlemagne; The Coronation of his son Louis; The Taking of Pavia; The Opening of the Tomb of Charlemagne; The Foundation of the Cathedral.

Since the time of the Romans, Aix-la-Chapelle has been celebrated as a watering-place; and modern Europe fully appreciates the delicious baths and bubbling springs. Every seven years the Exposition of the Great Relics takes place; and then the pilgrims, drawn by faith, are added to the thousands of votaries at the shrine of fashion who annually flock to the dear old city.

The four Great Relics, which are exposed every seven years, from the 10th to the 24th of July, are: The dress of the Blessed Virgin; The swaddling-clothes of the Infant Jesus at Bethlehem; The cloth that encircled the loins of our dear Lord on the cross; The cloth in which the head of St. John the Baptist was enveloped after his decapitation. Charlemagne obtained these relics from Rome, Constantinople, and Jerusalem. His intimate relations with the Popes Adrian, who died in 795, and Leo III., are well known: his influence was unbounded with the Byzantine emperors, who sent ambassadors with the relics as presents; and in the East he had control over the holy places in Palestine. These sovereigns, who contributed to enrich his church of Notre Dame with treasures from their own sanctuaries, would not have dared incur the wrath of the great warrior by sending him false relics.

In 408, the Empress Pulcheria, the sister of Theodosius and wife of Marcian, built churches to contain the swaddling-clothes of the Infant Jesus and the cincture of the Blessed Virgin. The septennial exposition dates from the ninth century; and since then, historical testimony abounds, public facts attest, without interruption to our day, the authenticity of the relics venerated at Aix-la-Chapelle. Among the lesser relics are the _cingulum_ or leathern belt of our Lord, the extremities of which are united and stamped with the seal of Constantine; a piece of the cord with which the hands of our Lord were bound during his Passion; a piece of the sponge which was dipped in vinegar and gall and presented to our Lord on the cross; and a rib of St. Stephen, the first martyr.

The last exposition was in 1867, and the crowds that assisted bore witness to the living faith that makes the people of the Rhenish Provinces such admirable Catholics. Aix-la-Chapelle looked beautifully; from the high towers and dome of the cathedral, from every church and house, from the spires of the Hôtel de Ville, the banners and flags were flying. The black and white flag of Prussia, the red-and-white and blue-and-white banners of the churches, mingled with the Papal colors.

Sixty thousand pilgrims came every day afoot to Aix; every avenue leading to the cathedral was crowded, people standing in close file waiting their turn to enter. But in those serried ranks there was no noise, no confusion; profound, earnest devotion attested their faith and piety. The Rosary was recited in bands; a man’s voice would say alone the “Hail Mary,” and the “Holy Mary, Mother of God” was taken up by all. From 1 to 8 P.M. the cathedral was opened for the procession of pilgrims, but it was impossible to think of entering during that time, as it was an affair of hours.

After 8 P.M., the canons allowed a few, some hundreds, to enter by a private door; and then we first saw the interior of the superb old cathedral. We passed along through the arches and vaults of the basement story, ascended and descended staircases, and finally reached a vestibule, leading directly to the octagon, the centre of the cathedral. The grated doors were closed, as the pilgrims were still in the body of the church; in the dim light, we could see the glimmer of tapers in the choir; and the voices of the kneeling crowd reciting the litanies rose to heaven, the very incense of prayer.

Soon the doors were opened, and the favored ones passed slowly through. How grand and majestic the cathedral looked! The octagon in darkness, the choir illuminated. In single file, we made the tour around the relics; then all knelt down--the priests who were strangers in the stalls of the clergy, the laity outside. The canons walked in procession, each holding one of the precious relics, which we were allowed to kiss. After all was over, we looked around; we were kneeling in the superb choir, said to be the highest in Europe--higher than the choir in the cathedral of Cologne, which is lower than the nave. As we gazed upwards, and beheld the grand arches which rose so high above our heads, our thoughts were raised to heaven, and made us glorify God, who gives power to man to conceive and execute such works. The stained-glass windows are exquisite, and in the dim, religious light all looked bewilderingly beautiful.

The next morning, at 10 A.M., we took our position in front of the cathedral, where benches were erected temporarily to accommodate those who preferred sitting to standing. The crowds were reverentially silent and recollected, reciting the Rosary and the Litany of the Blessed Virgin. The relics were exposed from five points. When the priests appeared in the tower opposite us, the brass band in the gallery which connects the towers broke forth in grand harmony; the people singing as one voice the superb German choral music. It was overpowering! High up in the old gallery the canons holding the precious relics, the cross glittering, the light blazing around them, the splendid music resounding in triumph in the open air! The ages of faith are not past, as we all felt that day at Aix.

At 12 M. we joined the procession waiting for the doors of the cathedral to open, that we might enter the golden chamber. This was a select crowd, as we had to pay two francs for a card. The Prussian cavalry rode up and down to keep the ranks straight; and after we had been jammed outside, we received a final mash inside, and, by the time we were jelly, we shoved ourselves into the golden treasury, where a canon explained everything in German and French; then the procession passed again through the choir, around the octagon, and out another door.

The last day of the exposition was distinguished by a procession in the streets: the first that had taken place since the French Revolution. It was very solemn and grand; the Great Relics were borne in their superb shrines by the canons of the cathedral, the Archbishop of Cologne carried the reliquary containing the _cingulum_ of our Lord, the Bishop of Luxembourg the cincture of the Blessed Virgin.

Of course these great crowds, with the usual amount of dust and dirt, rather fatigued us, even though we were immensely impressed; so we sought the refreshing waters, and continued our meditations in the Kaiserbad; or, rather, we would commence our morning devotions by making ourselves comfortable. The Kaiserbad is the finest in Europe; long corridors, arched roofs lighted from above, encaustic-tiled floors, beautiful dressing-rooms, each one opening into a delicious bath of white marble, into which you descend by six white marble steps into the pure white sulphur water. Twenty minutes is the time advised for well people; invalids stay in an hour sometimes; after the twenty minutes, the attendants brought in hot sheets, in which we were enveloped. It was Elysium--the perfection of material enjoyment.

From the Kaiserbad we adjourned to the cathedral, heard Mass, and then strolled through the _Elisengarten_, the grounds around the spring; the Prussian military band played delightfully every morning, and we listened, drank occasional glasses of hot sulphur water, and then, refreshed and invigorated, were ready for any performance. In the afternoon, people drive to the heights of Louisberg, formerly a great fortress that commanded Aix, famous in the wars of the middle ages, and demolished after some treaty, to keep the peace of Europe.

The view from the height is superb. Aix-la-Chapelle was the favorite resort of Pauline Bonaparte, and Louisberg her pet promenade; so, after her death, the city of Aix erected a monument to her memory. There is also a Belvidere, where they have musical reunions and balls, and people drink coffee and Seltzer water, in which we indulged. After Louisberg, we drove around the old ramparts, visited the beautiful cemetery and the _Burtscheid_, the hottest of the springs, where the water is boiling--cooks an egg in a few seconds.

Besides the cathedral, there are several beautiful churches. The Jesuit church of the Immaculate Conception is very fine, built in the severest Gothic style, of solid stone. In the convent of the Sisters of the Infant Jesus, they make the most magnificent embroideries, one Gothic chasuble, just finished for an English bishop, was worth 15,000 francs; and the benediction veils, stoles, and capes were exquisite.

In the cathedral are preserved some fine chalices and vestments; amongst the latter a chasuble said to have been used by St. Bernard--it is of purple, adorned with pearls; a cape, with small bells attached to the lower edge, worn by Leo III. at the consecration of the church; a set of vestments of cloth-of-gold, ornamented with pearls, presented by Charles V.; and a chasuble, given in 1599 by Isabella, Infanta of Spain. Among the treasures of the cathedral is a manuscript of the Gospels, beautifully written in letters of gold on purple vellum; its binding is covered with plates of silver-gilt, richly enamelled.

In addition to the pious crowd, there was more than the usual influx of fashionable people. We had the pleasure of contemplating the Prince and Princess Frederick Charles of Prussia while they stood on the balcony of the Hôtel de Ville. Prince Frederick Charles, the Red Prince, is one of the great Prussian captains, and of course there was immense excitement. The place before the Hôtel de Ville is the vegetable and flower market, and the peasants, in their quaint caps and bonnets, were enchanted either with their royal highnesses or with the soldiers, who strolled among them, and bought up their wares.

Dremel’s, the hotel of Aix, was entirely devoted to the Sultan and his suite, who were on their way from Paris to Constantinople, after the Exposition. They were a splendid set of men. In the morning, on our way to the Kaiserbad, we passed Dremel’s, and, as they were always lounging around, we had a fine view of them. The Sultan kept himself secluded from the vulgar gaze, and was only seen the morning of his departure. Every one was on hand to see the commander of the faithful; at last, a great lumbering Prussian state carriage appeared, and there was the Sultan leaning back, eyes half-closed, arms folded on his breast, as if he were the sovereign of the world. His impassible face never changed expression; he looked the miserable fatalist he is.

In our German hotel, the Belle Vue, there was no reading-room, no drawing-room; everybody sat in the dining-room, chattering and talking away. Frank, the jolly landlord, made merry with a chosen band of friends, among whom was the Burgomaster, at the end of one table; all smoking, each man’s bottle of wine standing before him. A German friend assured us all Germany passed the evening in the same way; the professors at the universities think it absolutely necessary to drink as many bottles of wine in the evening as they have studied hours during the day. We mildly suggested it was not strange that German philosophy was rather cloudy sometimes, as the smoke of the evening might befog the learned professors; but our friend maintained it was healthy for mind and body.

Charming, delightful Aix! It was with regret we left it; we looked with longing eyes at the dome of the grand cathedral as it receded in the distance, and sighed for the delicious Kaiserbad as we were whirled through the dust and smoke. However, we had the happiness of making one person enjoy what we had so fully appreciated; on our return home we had the pleasure of seeing once again one whose name is dear to the heart of every American Catholic, the late illustrious Archbishop of Baltimore. He was suffering from rheumatism, and we told him such wonderful things of the baths at Aix, he changed his mind, and, instead of going to Paris, went to Aix; with what result, the following charming note will tell:

AIX-LA-CHAPELLE, August 4, 1867,
Hôtel de Belle Vue.

DEAR MADAME: I drop you a few lines, to return my sincere thanks
for having so effectually called my attention to the baths and
waters of this celebrated city. I find that all you said and
promised has been fully realized; and when, hereafter, any
one will dare tell me that your amiable sex is accustomed to
draw upon its imagination for its facts, or at least to color
extravagantly what has proved pleasing, I shall point to your
recommendation of these waters as a sufficient refutation, or at
any rate a most noted and brilliant exception to the remark.

The baths are all you said, and more; they are really superb,
and just what I needed. In fact, I consider it a special
providence that I met you in Brussels, or otherwise I should have
gone to Paris instead of Aix. Already I am quite relieved, and
in another week I expect to be as young and supple as ever. I am
at the Belle Vue, but, after taking one bath at the Kaiserbad,
I have taken the rest at the Rosebad; the latter are fully
equal to the former in sumptuousness, and the attendance is
probably better. I expect to return to Paris before or about the
15th inst., and if I can be of any service to you in Europe or
America, you may freely command me.

Though I have not yet taken any excursion to the country, I have
visited the relics and curiosities of the grand old cathedral,
and also the Hôtel de Ville. This is one of the oldest cities
in Europe, and its inhabitants say with pride, “After Rome,
Aix-la-Chapelle!” The city with its monuments carries us back a
thousand years to the brilliant days of Charlemagne, who was a
giant not only morally and intellectually, but physically, for he
was over seven feet two inches tall. Best regards and blessing to
your family, and compliments to the dean. Yours truly,
M. J. SPALDING,
Archbishop of Baltimore.

AMBROSIA

A LEGEND OF AUGSBURG.