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awaits his Holiness as he comes to celebrate High Mass. A portion of the army is ranged round the nave, to keep it open for the procession as it advances up the church. In a lofty balcony are stationed a band of musicians, to salute with a triumphal strain the "Head of the Church." This is the grand preparation that precedes the approach of the Pope, and the moment he enters the church, borne in a canopy on men's shoulders, the whole chapter receive him, and the choir and procession strike up, "Tu es Petrus et super hanc petram ædificabo ecclesiam meam," &c.-" thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church." The foolish old man receives all this with becoming humility, the procession moves on towards the main altar at the far end of the nave. The grenadiers, national troops and Capitoline Guard, that stand around the open centre, drop on one knee as he passes, and the whole multitude bow themselves in voluntary homage. At this juncture the choir pause in their “Tu es Petrus," and the military stationed in a gallery at the end of the church, midway to the roof, fill their trumpets with a triumphant salute that breaks along the arches and rolls in solemn grandeur up the lofty nave, while the great bell from without peals forth its acclamations to the "two hundred and fifty-seventh successor of the great Apostle."

I thought at the outset I would give a description of the procession and its order, the costumes of cardinals and eastern bishops, and the various ceremonies that preceded the Mass and Communion; together with an account of the ordinances themselves. But it would be simply to say that his Holiness knelt on a crimson and gold cushion-that now he laid aside his tiara, and put on his mitre, and now vice versȧ-that he mumbled prayers for which he alone was the wiser and none the better-that the dignitaries of the church held up the corners of his robes, and the choir chanted, and the incense arose, and the trumpets brayed, and the throne looked very comfortable, and the people seemed amused. I loitered it out till the time appointed for giving the benediction to the people, and then threaded my way through the throng, and hastened up to the top of one of the semi-circular colonnades that sweep away from St. Peter's, to witness this really imposing ceremony. To imagine it well, the reader must place before him a magnificent church with the paved ground gently sloping away into an ample area, around which these semi-circular colonnades, four columns deep, go like two immense arms thrown

out from either end of the church to embrace it in. A hundred and eighty colossal marble statues stand along the top of these colonnades, their only balustrade. Two beautiful fountains throw up their spray between, while a grey old granite obelisk from Egypt towers away in the centre. The centre of this area is kept open by the military ranged around it in the form of a hollow square. Between them and the steps are the living multitude waiting for the blessing. Behind the lower file are crammed in a black mass the countless carriages. In front of the church, and about half way up, is a small gallery or loggia, as the Italians term it, covered with crimson cloth, and shaded by an immense piece of canvass. Into this gallery the Pope advances to bless the people below.

Standing on the top of one of the colonnades, leaning against the base of a statue, I had a bird's eye view of the whole multitude and pageant below. Forty or fifty thousand people stood there in a dense mass. It was a grand spectacle and I contemplated it with mingled feelings, yet with the deepest interest. There was the soldier in his cap and plume, and there the peasant in his picturesque garb, and there the beggar in his rags. The Pope had not yet made his appearance, and, indeed, for the time being, I quite forgot him. It was a pageant and a farce, combining all the magnificence that dazzles the crowd, and all the folly that "makes the angels weep."

Nearly under me, far down, were a group of pilgrims, ragged and dirty, lying along the noble steps, apparently unconscious of all around -their staves leaning across them, their head on their hand, and they either nodding or fast asleep. One boy held my attention for a long time. He lay on the hard stones fast asleep, and his father asleep beside him. Suddenly there was the prolonged blast of a solitary trumpet. The father started up from his slumber, and supposing the Pope was about to appear, roused his boy beside him, so that they might not lose the invaluable blessing. The tired, drowsy little fellow rose half way up and then fell back again heavily on the steps fast asleep. The Pope did not appear, and the father, too, soon sunk away in deep slumber beside his son. They had wandered far from their quiet home to receive the blessing of the Holy Father. Reckless of the magnificence around them, of the swaying crowd, the oceanlike murmur that went up to heaven, they had fallen asleep under the shadow of St. Peter's. That boy, ragged and dirty as he was, had also

his dreams, and his palace, and objects of ambition; but they were all far away, and many a weary mile must be traversed before he would be amid them again. What a change, to be waked from that quiet dream by the sound of trumpets, and instead of his own rude hut by the mountain stream, to find the lofty cathedral before him, and the rumor of thousands around him!

Suddenly came the shout of trumpets, and as suddenly ceased again, and there stood the Pope in the Loggia, clad in his robes of state, and attended by his gorgeously clad cardinals. The sea of human faces was upturned to him, as clasping his hands he engaged in a short prayer, which none but those who stood beside him could hear. When it was over he spread out his hands over the vast assembly that sunk as one man to the earth, while the long ranks of soldiers kneeled, with their bayonets erect, under the open sky. The benediction, which none but those near the person of the Pope could hear, was then pronounced, and a bull anathematizing all heretics thrown out upon the air, and lo! the pageant was over. The multitude sprung to their feet-drum and trumpet pealed forth their gladdest notes the cannon of St. Angelo thundered back the joy, and the bells threw in their clangor to swell the jubilee that made the very city reel. The mighty throng swayed and tossed like a moving sea-the steady ranks wheeled into order-horses gallopped over the area-carriages rattled ainid the confusion, and the living stream went pouring onward to the city. The people had been blessed in word but not in deed; and I thought of a conversation I once had with a vetturino respecting his Holiness. Speaking of the condition of the lower classes, their wages, poverty, and distress, he became highly excited, and closed up with saying, "the poor are taxed for their land and what they raise on it. It is nothing but tax, tax, till they have nothing left. A poor peasant cannot bring a chicken into Rome without paying a duty on it to the Pope; and what does he get in return for all this? La sua benedizione una volte per anno! Non è un benedizione, è un maledicione." "His blessing once a year -it is not a blessing but a curse." This was strong language for a Catholic to use, and I looked on him in undisguised astonishment. Has the blessing of his Holiness fallen so low in the estimation of the lower classes? How utterly worthless then to the more intelligent! The people come to gaze on the magnificent farce and go away to sneer. There is a feeling

deeper than superstition, and that is want The nerve that hunger tortures is more sensitive than all others, and the Pope will find he can starve his people into heretics faster than all Christendom can convert them. The pomp and pageantry that formerly controlled the multitude are every day becoming less and less effective. It is hard to dazzle the imagination when the stomach is clamoring for food. Men begin to ask questions of their rulers, and the most ignorant can ask, "cui bono?" to the lordliest entertainment. And high as the king may sit, and infallible as the Pope may be, he has yet to answer these questions directly and plainly, and wo be to him when it is understood and felt he can give no satisfactory answer.

After all the ceremony is over, you can walk, if you will, through St. Peter's and view its magnificence. On one side is arranged a row of temporary confessionals, with a placard over each, in every language in the civilized world. There the Arab, Russian, German, Greek, Swede, Spaniard and Englishman, can confess his sins in his own tongue, and receive absolution. Poor wretches are kneeling before them, pouring the tale of their sorrows and sins into the ears of the yawning confessor, who dismisses them, one after another, with lightened consciences, though not with purer hearts. At sun-down, if not too tired, you can return and stroll over the marble pavement and listen to the vespers that, chanted in a side chapel, come stealing sweetly out into the amplitude, and float away among the arches in ravishing melody. The lamps are burning dimly before the altartwilight is deepening over the glorious structure, and forms in strange costumes are slowly passing and repassing over the tesselated floor. The heart becomes subdued under the influence of sight, and sound, and a feeling almost of superstition will creep over the sternest heart. The gloom grows deeper, leaving nothing distinctly seen, while that vesper hymn comes stealing out on the bewildered ear, like a strain from the unseen world.

But in the evening is the grandest display of all. During the day the interior of St. Peter's has done its utmost to magnify his Holiness, and at night the exterior must do its share of glorification. This great building, covering several acres, is illuminated in its entire outer surface. It is an operation of great expense, and attended with much danger. It is caused by suspending four thousand, four hundred lanterns upon it, covering it from the dome down. To accomplish this, men have to be let down with

ropes, over every part of the edifice, and left dangling there for more than an hour. Even from the base of the church they look like insects creeping over the surface. Hanging down the precipitous sides of the immense dome, standing four hundred feet high in the air, is attended with so much danger, that the eighty men employed in it always receive extreme unction before they attempt it. The last sacrament is taken, and their accounts settled, both for this world and the next, so that death would not, after all, be so great a calamity. The Pope must amuse the people, and glorify his reign, though he hazard human life in doing it. But he has the magnanimity to secure the sufferer from evil in the next world. If a rope break, and the man is crushed into a shapeless mass on the pavement below, his soul immediately ascends to one of the most favored seats in Paradise. He fell from God's church-he died in the attempt to illuminate it, and in obedience to God's vicegerent on earth. How can the man help being saved? But to make assurance doubly sure, the Pope gives him a passport with his own hand, which, he assures the poor creature, St. Peter, who sits by the celestial gates, will most fully recognize. This is very kind of the Pope. If he kills a man, he sends him to heaven, and secures him a recompense in the next world for all he lost in this. The ignorant creature who is willing to undertake the perilous operation for the sake of a few dollars, wherewith to feed his children, believes it all, and fearlessly swings in mid heaven, where the yielding of a single strand of the rope would precipitate him where the very form of humanity would be crushed out of him.

But one forgets all this in looking at the illumination, which it is impossible to describe. There are two illuminations. This first is called the silver one, and commences about eight o'clock in the evening. These four thousand, four hundred lamps are so arranged as to reveal the entire architecture of the building. Every column, cornice, frieze and window—all the details of the building, and the entire structure, are revealed in a soft, clear light, producing an effect indescribably pleasing, yet utterly bewildering. It seems an immense alabaster building, lit from within. The long lines of light, made by the column, with the shadows between-the beautiful cornice glittering over the darkness under it the magnificent semi-circular colonnades all inherent with light, and every one of the hundred and eighty statues along its top surmounted with a lamp, and the immense dome

rising over all, like a mountain of molten silver, in the deep darkness around, so completely delude the senses that one can think of nothing but a fairy fabric suddenly lighted and hung in mid heavens. This effect, however, is given only when one stands at a distance. The Pincian hill is the spot from which to view it. All around is buried in deep darkness, except that steadily shining glory. Not a sound is heard to break the stillness, and you gaze, and gaze, expecting every moment to see the beautiful vision fade. But it still shines calmly on

This illumination lasts from eight to nine, and just as the bell of the Cathedral strikes nine, sending its loud and solemn peal over the city, a thousand four hundred and seventy-five torches are suddenly kindled, beside the lanterns. The change is instantaneous and almost terrific. The air seems to waver to and fro in the sudden light-shape and form are lost for a moment, and the vision which just charmed your senses is melting and flowing together. The next moment, old St. Peter's again draws its burning outline against the black sky, and stands like a mountain of torches in the deep night, with a fiery cross burning at the top. How the glorious structure burns, yet unconsumed! The flames wrap it in their fierce embrace, and yet not a single detail is lost in the conflagration. There is the noble façade in all its harmony, and yet on fire. There are the immense colonnades wavering in the light, changed only in that they are now each a red marble shaft. The statues stand unharmed, and all fiery figures. The dome is a vast fireball in the darkness, yet its distinct outline remains as clear as at the first. The whole mighty edifice is there, but built all of flamecolumns, friesco, cornice, windows, towers, dome, cross-a temple of fire, perfect in every part, flashing, swaying, burning in mid heavens. The senses grow bewildered in gazing on its intense brilliancy, and the judgment pronounces it an optical illusion, unreal, fantastical. Yet the next moment it stands corrected-that is St Peter's, flaming, unconsumed in the murky heavens. Hour after hour it blazes on, and the last torch is yet unextinguished when the grey twilight of morning opens in the east. This you say is a glorious spectacle; yes, but it is on Sabbath evening-The successor of the apostle -the spiritual head of the church-the "vicegerent of God on earth has sanctified the Sabbath by this glorious illumination in honor of the son of God!" What a preposterous idea, what a magnificent folly! And do you think

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the modern Roman is so complete a fool as to believe in the propriety and religion of all this? By no means. He admires and enjoys the spectacle, then sneers when it is over.

There are hundreds who go to witness it and return to their homes, with dark and bitter thoughts in their bosoms. The patriot (for there are patriots still in Rome, mindful of her ancient glory), to sigh over his degenerate country-the poor and half starved artisan (for there are many such in the imperial city), to curse the watchfulness of his monarch and spiritual father, who in this costly amusement robbed hundreds of mouths of their daily bread. Could one look through the darkness that wraps Rome and beneath the calm surface that is presented to the eye, he would see rebellion enough were it once harmonized and concentrated, to shake the papal throne into fragments on its ancient foundations. The flames around St. Peter's would be seen to be typical of the moral fires around the seat of Papacy. But the embrace of the latter would not be found so harmless as that of the other, and men would not gaze on it in such pleasing ecstacy, but with the dark forebodings of him who feels the first throb of a coming earthquake. The years do not move round in a tread-mill, but each pushes on its fellow and all are tending to a certain goal. They have their mission and God his designs, and he is stupid and blind who believes that man can always be deluded by the same follies.

The age of interrogation has commenced. Men begin to ask questions in Rome as well as here, and every one tells on the fate of papacy more than a thousand cannon shot. Physical force is powerless against such enemies, while pageantry and pomp only increase the clamor and discontent.

How much more befitting the head of any church however corrupt, or the monarch on any throne however oppressive, to take the thousands of dollars spent in these two illuminations and buy bread for the poor! Were this done, the day of evil might be postponed; for on the Pope's head would be rained the blessings of the poor, which under the government of God are always so powerful to avert evil. The money squandered on these illuminations would have poured joy through hearts that seldom feel its pulsations, and been a benediction that the poor would have understood and appreciated. To spread out one's empty hands over the multitude is an easy thing and accomplishes nothing. But with those hands to fill thousands of hungry mouths, would accomplish

much and exhibit something of the paternal care of a " FATHER."

But this does not close the ceremonies of

Holy week. The Pope furnishes one more magnificent spectacle to his subjects and his flock. The next night after the grand illumination is the "Girandola," or fire-works of his Holiness, and we must say that he does far better in getting up fire-works than religious ceremonies. This "Girandola" does credit to his taste and skill. It is the closing act of the magnificent farce, and all Rome turns out to see it. About half way from the Corso-the Broadway of Rome-to St. Peter's, the famous marble bridge of Michael Angelo crosses the Tiber. The castle of St. Angelo, formerly the vast and magnificent tomb of Adrian, stands at the farther end. This castle is selected for the exhibition of the fire-works. None of the spectators are permitted to cross the bridge, so that the Tiber flows between them and the exhibition. There is a large open area as you approach the bridge, capable of holding twenty or thirty thousand people. In a portion of this near the river, chairs are placed to be let to strangers at two or four pauls apiece, according as one is able to make a good bargain. The windows of the neighboring houses that overlook the scene are let weeks beforehand. The ordinary price of a seat, or even of a good standing spot in one of these houses, is a scudi or dollar. Towards evening the immense crowd begin to move in the direction of St. Angelo, and soon the whole area, and every window and house-top, is filled with human beings. About eight the exhibition commences. The first scene in the drama represents a vast Gothic cathedral. How this is accomplished I cannot tell. Everything is buried in darkness, when suddenly, as if by the touch of an enchanter's wand, a noble Gothic cathedral of the size of the immense castle, stands in light and beauty before you. The arrangement of the silver-like lights is perfect, and as it shines on silent and still in the surrounding darkness, you can hardly believe it is not a beautiful vision. It disappears as suddenly as it came, and for a moment utter darkness settles over the gloomy castle. Yet it is but for a moment. The next instant a sheet of flame bursts from the summit with a fury perfectly appalling; white clouds of sulphureous smoke roll up the sky, accompanied with molten fragments and detonations that shake the very earth beneath you. It is the representation of a volcano in full eruption, and a most vivid one too. Amid the spouting

fire, and murky smoke, and rising fragments, the cannon of the castle are discharged, out of sight, almost every second. Report follows report with stunning rapidity, and it seems for a moment as if the solid structure would shake to pieces. At length the last throb of the volcano is heard, and suddenly from the base, and sides, and summit of the castle, start innumerable rockets, and serpents, and Roman candles, while revolving wheels are blazing on every side. The heavens are one arch of blazing meteors the very Tiber flows in fire, while the light, falling on ten thousand upturned faces, presents a scene indescribably strange and bewildering. For a whole hour it is a constant blaze. The flashing meteors are crossing and recrossing in every direction-fiery messengers are traversing the sky overhead, and amid the incessant whizzing, and crackling, and bursting, that is perfectly deafening, comes at intervals the booming of cannon. At length the pageant is over, and the gaping crowd surge back into the city. Lent is over-the last honors are done to God by his revealed representative on earth, and the Church stands acquitted of all neglect of proper observances. Is it asked if the people are deceived by this magnificence ? By no means. A stranger, an Italian, stood by me as I was gazing on the spectacle, and we soon fell into conversation. He was an intelligent man, and our topic was Italy. He spoke low but earnestly of the state of his country, and declared there was as much genius and mind in Italy now as ever, but they were not fostered. An imbecile, yet oppressive government monopolized all the wealth of the state and expended it in just such follies as these, while genius starved and the poor died in want. I have never heard the poor Pope so berated in my own country. At the close of the representation of a volcano, I remarked that it resembled perdition. "Yes," said he, with a most bitter sneer, "hell is in Rome nowadays." Ha the Pope or one of his gensd'armes heard it, he would have seen the inside of a prison before morning. I was exceedingly interested in him, for he was an intelligent and earnest man, and when I turned to go away I took him by the hand and bade him good bye, say ing, another day is finished. Yes," he replied, with the same withering sneer," another day of our Master, another day of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ." I was perfectly thunderstruck at the man's boldness. Such a satire on his Holiness and his mode of celebrating a holy day, in the midst of a crowd, startled

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me, and I trembled lest his imprudence should bring down on him the vengeance of papal power. But the man's heart was evidently full of bitterness at the mockery and folly before him, while his country lay prostrate in the dust. Addio," said he, as he shook my hand, and the next moment was lost in the crowd. Many a time have I thought of him since, and would give much to know his after history. Perhaps he has before this suffered as a conspirator, and gone with the multitude of those whose tongues his Holiness has silenced in prison or death. And yet the man was right. What a close to religious ceremonies had these last two nights been! Their moral effect on the people was like that of any fire-works, with the exception that the successor of the apostle had got up these and graced the Sabbath with the illumination, having provided beforehand for the breaking of a few necks, by administering the last sacrament to the poor creatures who climbed up St. Peter's. The sanctity and infallibility of the Spiritual Father are not so easy to believe in under the shadow of the papal throne, and it puzzled us prodigiously to account for the conversions to Catholicism of English and Americans in Rome. How a man of ordinary sense and penetration can become a Romanist in Rome, is passing strange. The hollowness of the whole system so plain to be seen the almost open farce the Pope and his cardinals enact in the face of intelligent men, would be sufficient, we should think, to prevent a man of common shrewdness from adopting the belief. It seemed to us that there was no effort to conceal the mockery from clearsighted men. The whole parade and pomp appeared to be got up for the express purpose of deluding the ignorant by dazzling their senses, and it was expected other men would coincide solely on the ground of being " participes criminis." It was like a party procession, designed to influence only the more ignorant and impulsive. And yet there are found those who, in the face of it all, and in direct opposition to their early education and more mature prejudices, embrace the Roman Catholic religion. Yet these are such men as become Mormons, and Millerites, and Quakers at home. There is a class of those who seem fitted by nature to prefer the inconsistent and ridiculous in religion, rather than reason and common sense. They appear to have a strong desire to be made fools of, and the greater the folly, the stronger their tendency towards it, and the greater their tenacity when once it is embraced.