Saint Gregory, the first Benedictine to be elected Pope, was the creator of the Liturgy, the master of plain-song.  He was alike devoted to justice and to charity, and a passionate patron of art; and this admirable Pope, with his broad and comprehensive spirit, regarded it as a temptation of the Devil that made the bigots, the Pharisees of his day, proclaim their determination not to read profane literature; for, said he, it helps us to understand that which is sacred.

Made Pope against his will, he led a life of anguish, mourning for the lost peace of his cloister; but he fought none the less with incredible energy against the inroads of the Barbarians, the heresies of Africa, the intrigues of Byzantium, and the Simony of his own priests.

He stands out in a dark age, amid a witches’ sabbath of shrieking schisms; he is seen in the midst of these storms, protecting the poor from the rapacity of the rich, feeding them with his own hands, kissing their feet, every day; and in spite of this overworked life without a moment’s respite, or a minute for rest, he succeeded in restoring monastic discipline, and sowing wherever he might the Benedictine seed, saving the headlong world by the vigilance of his Order.

Though he was not a martyr like Saint Clement, he died nevertheless for Christ, of exhaustion and fatigue, after living in the constant suffering of a frame undermined by disease, and weakened by voluntary maceration and fasting.

“This, no doubt, is the reason why the face of his statue is so sad and thoughtful,” said Durtal to himself.  “And yet he is listening to the dove, the symbol of inspiration which is speaking in his ear, dictating to him, the legend says, the antiphonal melodies, and undoubtedly whispering his dialogues, his homilies, his commentaries on the Book of Job, his pastoral letter—­all the works which made him so immensely famous in the Middle Ages.”

As he made his way home, Durtal, still reflecting on this array of the Righteous, suddenly was struck by this idea:  “There is no portrait in Chartres of a Saint whose present help was of yore desired above all others:  Saint Christopher, whose effigy was usually to be found at the entrance to a cathedral, standing alone in a spot apart.

“It stood thus, formerly, at the door of Notre-Dame de Paris, and is still to be seen in one corner of the principal front at Amiens; but in most places the iconoclasts overthrew it, and the churches where the statue of Christopher is now to be seen may be easily counted.  It must once have existed at Chartres—­but where?  The monographs on this cathedral never allude to it.”

Thus, as he walked on, he dreamed of the Saint whose popularity is easily accounted for, since our forefathers believed that they had only to look at his image, whether painted or carved, to be protected for a whole day from disaster, and especially from violent death.

So he was always placed outside in a prominent spot, and very large, so that he might easily be seen by the wayfarer, even from afar.  In some cases his effigy was found on a gigantic scale, inside the church.  Thus he is represented in the Dom at Erfurt, in a fresco of the fifteenth century, too much restored.