The clerk, in terror, hesitated whether to turn and run away, but Our Lady beckoned him to the bed, while all rose and kneeled devoutly to the sacrament. Then she said to the trembling clerk:--

"Friend, be not afraid!

But seat yourself, to give us aid, Beside these maidens, on the bed."

And when the clerk had obeyed, she continued--

"Or tost, amis!" fait Nostre Dame, "Confessies ceste bone fame Et puis apres tout sans freeur Recevra tost son sauveeur Qui char et sanc vout en moi prendre."

"Come quickly, friend!" Our Lady says, "This good old woman now confess And afterwards without distress She will at once receive her G.o.d Who deigned in me take flesh and blood."

After the sacrament came a touch of realism that recalls the simple death-scenes that Walter Scott described in his grand twelfth- century manner. The old woman lingered pitiably in her agony:--

Lors dit une des demoiselles A madame sainte Marie: "Encore, dame, n'istra mie Si com moi semble du cors l'ame."

"Bele fille," fait Nostre Dame, "Traveiller lais un peu le cors, Aincois que l'ame en isse hors, Si que puree soil et nete Aincois qu'en Paradis la mete.

N'est or mestier qui soions plus, Ralon nous en ou ciel la.s.sus, Quant tens en iert bien reviendrons En paradis l'ame emmerrons."

A maiden said to Saint Marie, "My lady, still it seems to me The soul will not the body fly."

"Fair child!" Our Lady made reply, "Still let awhile the body fight Before the soul shall leave it quite.

So that it pure may be, and cleansed When it to Paradise ascends.

No longer need we here remain; We can go back to heaven again; We will return before she dies, And take the soul to paradise."

The rest of the story concerned the usurer, whose death-bed was of a different character, but Mary's interest in death-beds of that kind was small. The fate of the usurer mattered the less because she knew too well how easily the banker, in good credit, could arrange with the officials of the Trinity to open the doors of paradise for him.

The administration of heaven was very like the administration of France; the Queen Mother saw many things of which she could not wholly approve; but her nature was pity, not justice, and she shut her eyes to much that she could not change. Her miracles, therefore, were for the most part mere evidence of her pity for those who needed it most, and these were rarely the well-to-do people of the siecle, but more commonly the helpless. Every saint performed miracles, and these are standard, not peculiar to any one intermediator; and every saint protected his own friends; but beyond these exhibitions of power, which are more or less common to the whole hierarchy below the Trinity, Mary was the mother of pity and the only hope of despair. One might go on for a volume, studying the character of Mary and the changes that time made in it, from the earliest Byzantine legends down to the daily recorded miracles at Lourdes; no character in history has had so long or varied a development, and none so sympathetic; but the greatest poets long ago plundered that mine of rich motives, and have stolen what was most dramatic for popular use. The Virgin's most famous early miracle seems to have been that of the monk Theophilus, which was what one might call her salvation of Faust. Another Byzantine miracle was an original version of Shylock. Shakespeare and his fellow dramatists plundered the Church legends as freely as their masters plundered the Church treasuries, yet left a ma.s.s of dramatic material untouched. Let us pray the Virgin that it may remain untouched, for, although a good miracle was in its day worth much money--so much that the rival shrines stole each other's miracles without decency--one does not care to see one's Virgin put to money- making for Jew theatre-managers. One's two-hundred and fifty million arithmetical ancestors shrink.

For mere amus.e.m.e.nt, too, the miracle is worth reading of the little Jew child who ignorantly joined in the Christian communion, and was thrown into a furnace by his father in consequence; but when the furnace was opened, the Virgin appeared seated in the midst of the flames, with the little child unharmed in her lap. Better is that called the "Tombeor de Notre Dame," only recently printed; told by some unknown poet of the thirteenth century, and told as well as any of Gaultier de Coincy's. Indeed the "Tombeor de Notre Dame" has had more success in our time than it ever had in its own, as far as one knows, for it appeals to a quiet sense of humour that pleases modern French taste as much as it pleased the Virgin. One fears only to spoil it by translation, but if a translation be merely used as a glossary or footnote, it need not do fatal harm.

The story is that of a tumbler--tombeor, street-acrobat--who was disgusted with the world, as his cla.s.s has had a reputation for becoming, and who was fortunate enough to obtain admission into the famous monastery of Clairvaux, where Saint Bernard may have formerly been blessed by the Virgin's presence. Ignorant at best, and especially ignorant of letters, music, and the offices of a religious society, he found himself unable to join in the services:--

Car n'ot vescu fors de tumer Et d'espringier et de baler.

Treper, saillir, ice savoit; Ne d'autre rien il ne savoit; Car ne savoit autre lecon Ne "pater noster" ne chancon Ne le "credo" ne le salu Ne rien qui fust a son salu.

For he had learned no other thing Than to tumble, dance and spring: Leaping and vaulting, that he knew, But nothing better could he do.

He could not say his prayers by rote; Not "Pater noster", not a note, Not "Ave Mary," nor the creed; Nothing to help his soul in need.

Tormented by the sense of his uselessness to the society whose bread he ate without giving a return in service, and afraid of being expelled as a useless member, one day while the bells were calling to ma.s.s he hid in the crypt, and in despair began to soliloquize before the Virgin's altar, at the same spot, one hopes, where the Virgin had shown herself, or might have shown herself, in her infinite bounty, to Saint Bernard, a hundred years before:--

"Hai," fait il, "con suis trais!

Or dira ja cascuns sa laisse Et jo suis ci i hues en laisse Qui ne fas ci fors que broster Et viandes por nient gaster.

Si ne dirai ne ne ferai?

Par la mere deu, si ferai!

Ja n'en serai ore repris; Jo ferai ce que j'ai apris; Si servirai de men mestier La mere deu en son mostier; Li autre servent de canter Et jo servirai de tumer."

Sa cape oste, si se despoille, Deles l'autel met sa despoille, Mais por sa char que ne soit nue Une cotele a retenue Qui moult estait tenre et alise, Pet.i.t vaut miex d'une chemise, Si est en pur le cors remes.

Il s'est bien chains et acesmes, Sa cote caint et bien s'atorne, Devers l'ymage se retorne Mout humblement et si l'esgarde: "Dame," fait il, "en vostre garde Comant jo et mon cors et m'ame.

Douce reine, douce dame, Ne despisies ce que jo sai Car jo me voil metre a l'asai De vos servir en bone foi Se dex m'ait sans nul desroi.

Jo ne sai canter ne lire Mais certes jo vos voil eslire Tos mes biax gieus a eslicon.

Or soie al fuer de taurecon Qui trepe et saut devant sa mere.

Dame, qui n'estes mie amere A cels qui vos servent a droit, Quelsque jo soie, por vos soit!"

Lors li commence a faire saus Bas et pet.i.ts et grans et haus

Primes deseur et puis desos, Puis se remet sor ses genols, Devers l'ymage, et si l'encline: "He!" fait il, "tres douce reine Par vo pitie, par vo francise, Ne despisies pas mon servise!"

"Ha!" said he, "how I am ashamed!

To sing his part goes now each priest, And I stand here, a tethered beast, Who nothing do but browse and feed And waste the food that others need.

Shall I say nothing, and stand still?

No! by G.o.d's mother, but I will!

She shall not think me here for naught; At least I'll do what I've been taught!

At least I'll serve in my own way G.o.d's mother in her church to-day.

The others serve to pray and sing; I will serve to leap and spring."

Then he strips him of his gown, Lays it on the altar down; But for himself he takes good care Not to show his body bare, But keeps a jacket, soft and thin, Almost a shirt, to tumble in.

Clothed in this supple woof of maille His strength and health and form showed well.

And when his belt is buckled fast, Toward the Virgin turns at last: Very humbly makes his prayer; "Lady!" says he, "to your care I commit my soul and frame.

Gentle Virgin, gentle dame, Do not despise what I shall do, For I ask only to please you, To serve you like an honest man, So help me G.o.d, the best I can.

I cannot chant, nor can I read, But I can show you here instead, All my best tricks to make you laugh, And so shall be as though a calf Should leap and jump before its dam.

Lady, who never yet could blame Those who serve you well and true, All that I am, I am for you."

Then he begins to jump about, High and low, and in and out,

Straining hard with might and main; Then, falling on his knees again, Before the image bows his face: "By your pity! by your grace!"

Says he, "Ha! my gentle queen, Do not despise my offering!"

In his earnestness he exerted himself until, at the end of his strength, he lay exhausted and unconscious on the altar steps.

Pleased with his own exhibition, and satisfied that the Virgin was equally pleased, he continued these devotions every day, until at last his constant and singular absence from the regular services attracted the curiosity of a monk, who kept watch on him and reported his eccentric exercise to the Abbot.

The mediaeval monasteries seem to have been gently administered.

Indeed, this has been made the chief reproach on them, and the excuse for robbing them for the benefit of a more energetic crown and n.o.bility who tolerated no beggars or idleness but their own; at least, it is safe to say that few well-regulated and economically administered modern charities would have the patience of the Abbot of Clairvaux, who, instead of calling up the weak-minded tombeor and sending him back to the world to earn a living by his profession, went with his informant to the crypt, to see for himself what the strange report meant. We have seen at Chartres what a crypt may be, and how easily one might hide in its shadows while ma.s.s is said at the altars. The Abbot and his informant hid themselves behind a column in the shadow, and watched the whole performance to its end when the exhausted tumbler dropped unconscious and drenched with perspiration on the steps of the altar, with the words:--

"Dame!" fait il, "ne puis plus ore; Mais voire je reviendrai encore."

"Lady!" says he, "no more I can, But truly I'll come back again!"

You can imagine the dim crypt; the tumbler lying unconscious beneath the image of the Virgin; the Abbot peering out from the shadow of the column, and wondering what sort of discipline he could inflict for this unforeseen infraction of rule; when suddenly, before he could decide what next to do, the vault above the altar, of its own accord, opened:--