THE CAPITOL AND VATICAN.

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his memorable attacks on Cataline, "Tactus est ille etiam qui hanc urbem condidit Romulus quem inauratum in Capotolio parvum atque lactantem, uberibus lupinis inhiantem fuisse meministis." This, too, one of the objects of deepest reverence, had the Gods smitten, as an evidence of their anger. In the palace is the famous "dying gladiator." This is one of those few statues I was not disappointed in. As I looked upon that manly dying form, and caught the mingled expression of pain and sorrow on his noble face, I could scarcely refrain from tears. I am vexed at the discussions of antiquarians about this statue. I care not whether it be a fancy piece, or a slave, or a Gallic herald, or a dying gladiator. There he lies dying-dying from a wound a foe has given him dying too, innocent. His whole expression tells of a man who fought from necessity, not will. There is no anger in it, but the reverse; none of the fierce passions that kindle in the human face when foe meets foe. The whole countenance is beyond expression mournful. The eye utters his despair, telling in thrilling accents that the last hope of life is given up the slightly wrinkled brow and yielding lip speak his pain, while the clotted hair tells of the long and exhausting fight before he fell. Every limb of the noble form speaks of the terrible exertion it has put forth in the struggle for life. And then over all the face is that dreamy expression that shows the heart is far away amid other How natural he lies upon his arm, gradually sinking lower and lower, as the "big drops" ooze from the fountain of life! I thought of Byron as I stood beside it, and of the intense feeling with which he gazed upon it. His stanzas are the most literally correct description ever written. He has hit every ex

scenes.

pression of the figure, and when the "inhuman shout" rung over the arena to his victor, you know

"He heard it but he heeded not-his eyes

Were with his heart, and that was far away;
He recked not of the life he lost nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Daunbe lay,
There were his young barbarians all at play,
There was their Dacian mother-he their sire,
Butchered to make a Roman holiday-

All this rushed with his blood."

With one long stride step into the Vatican, as the papal palace,

museum, &c., that join St. Peter's, are called. Here is Laocoon, that men have poetized, as well as the dying gladiator, and yet it pleases me not. I have a feeling of horror it is true in looking upon it, and that is all. I have no deep sympathy for Laocoon himself. Master critics have long ago settled the perfection of the work. There is life and force in it. The little child with one foot raised to press down the folds of the serpent that are tightening around the other leg, is terribly true and life-like. But the whole expression of Laocoon is that of a weak man, utterly overcome with terror-mastered more completely by fear than a strong-minded man ever can be. There seems no resistance left in him, and you feel that such a character never could die decently. While I admired the work, I could not love the character. On the gladiator's face such utter terror never could be written. The sights that could paint such fear on his features do not exist. I will not attempt to take you through the Vatican. This first time I roamed through it without guide-book or question. The Apollo Belvidere and Laocoon I could not mistake, neither did I wish any one to tell me when I came to the Transfiguration. The glorious figure of Christ in this latter picture, suspended in mid heaven, and the wonderful face, so unlike all other faces ever painted before, held me spell-bound in its presence. Why could not the artist have left out the some dozen or more saints that he has placed below, gaping with astonishment on the wondrous spectacle? The two shining figures beside the still more radiant Savior are enough to complete the group. The addition of others destroys the simplicity, and hence injure the grandeur of the whole. It was foolish to attempt to improve on the original group. Yet I went away vexed and irritated. My utter inability to see half as it ought to be seen, prevented my enjoying any thing. Again and again I strolled through its immense halls, and can only say it is a forest of statuary, and ought to be divided among the world. But what shall I say of the Vatican ? How can I describe it? I cannot-I can only say it is more than 1,000 feet long, and nearly 800 wide-that it contains eight grand staircases, 200 smaller ones, 20 courts, and 4,422 apartments, and a library no one knows how large.

Truly yours.

THE POPE-DON MIGUEL.

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LETTER XXXI.

The Pope-Don Miguel-Mezzofanti.

ROME, April, 1843.

DEAR E.-To-day I received an invitation to be presented to his holiness the Pope, but as I found that 'shorts' and some other inconvenient et ceteras were necessary I declined. I regretted it afterwards, as I found I could have been presented in my ordinary dress. Whenever ladies are presented, court dress is not required. A lady unexpectedly became one of the number who were to accompany our consul to his holiness, and I could have seen him without the inconvenience I anticipated.

It was a matter of very little consequence, however, as I had on several occasions been within a few feet of him an hour at a time, and heard him speak, and got, as I supposed, a very good idea of the Man. He is nearly 80 years of age, but robust and healthy; he stoops considerably and walks slowly; yet when he mounts his throne his step is light and elastic as that of a young man. He has marked aquiline_features, a mild eye, and a very benignant countenance. He was a prelate of no distinction, and mounted to the chair of St. Peter as many others have done before him, by party strife. As soon as the Pope dies there commences a furious struggle between the rival families for the throne. The only way the Cardinals can reconcile the factions, and escape from their imprisonment, often is to fall on some old and indifferent Cardinal and elect him. The present Pope Gregory was elected under these circumstances. He is not regarded as a very clever man, although he bears an excellent moral character.

I forgot to mention that the other day at some exercises in the Sistine Chapel, I saw Don Miguel. He is a very good-looking He now lives at Albano, fifteen miles from Rome, whither ne has been banished by the Pope. While he was in power in

man

Portugal, he lavished his wealth on the Pope, who now, in return, supports him on a salary, it is said, of $20,000. The cause of his banishment was an insult he offered to the wife of Prince Borghese, one of the first families in the Papal dominions. She was the daughter of the famous Catholic Earl of Shrewsbury, and with true English spirit, resented deeply the insult offered her. Borghese told his Holiness either Don Miguel must leave Rome, or he. The Pope, placed in this dilemma, exiled Don Miguel fifteen miles off, to the beautiful hill of Albano, from whence he drives into town no oftener than he wishes.

There is a singular custom here during Holy Week. Pilgrims from every quarter journey on foot during Easter to Rome, for which they are entertained at the Church of the "Trinita❞—their feet washed by distinguished individuals, who also serve them at table, and finally put them nicely to bed. They are the completest set of ragamuffins you ever beheld, and it is really revolting to look at their nasty feet. A few nights since Don Miguel attended in one of the convents attached to the Church, and washed and served several of these lousy beggars. Great merit is attached to this act, and Don Miguel expects, doubtless, to wash out, in this way, some of his peccadilloes, of which there is any quantity. The next night, some friends and myself jumped into a carriage at St. Peter's, and rode down to see the performThe pilgrims all sat in a row, on an elevated bench, with each a wooden dish under his feet. There is no humbug about this washing, as there is in the Pope's washing the disciples' feet. The dirt on these beggars is, as Carlyle would say, well authenticated dirt, and it is no joke to remove it. Two Cardinals were among the washers; and to my surprise, one of them I observed to be Cardinal Mezzofanti, the greatest linguist in the world. He speaks fifty-two different languages. His acquirements alone have obtained for him a Cardinal's hat and Post-Mastership of Rome.

ance.

The Pope attributes his knowledge of languages to a miraculous gift. Conversing to-day with a priest on the subject-a friend of Mezzofanti-he told me that Mezzofanti himself attributes his power in acquiring languages to the divine influence. He says that when an obscure priest in the North of Italy, he

was called one day to confess two foreigners condemned for piracy who were to be executed next day. On entering their cell he found them unable to understand a word he uttered. Overwhelmed with the thought that the criminals should leave this world without the benefits of religion, he returned to his room resolved to acquire their language before morning. He accomplished his task, and next day confessed them in their own tongue. From that time on, he says, he has had no difficulty in mastering the most difficult language. The purity of his motive in the first place, he thinks, influenced the Deity to assist him miraculously. A short time since a Swede, who could speak a patois peculiar to a certain province of Sweden, called on him, and addressed him in that dialect. Mezzofanti had never heard it before, and seemed very much interested. He invited him to call on him often, which he did, while the conversation invariably turned on this dialect. At length the Swede calling one day, heard himself, to his amazement, addressed in this difficult patois. He inquired of the Car. dinal, who had been his master, for he thought, he said, there was no man in Rome who would speak that language but himself. "I have had no one," he replied, "but yourself—I NEVER forget a word I hear once." If this be true, he has a miraculous memory at all events. This the priest told me he had from Mezzofanti himself. At home this would be headed " Strange if true.'

I forgot to say, while speaking of the ceremony of washing the pilgrims' feet, that there is a separate apartment in the same building for the females, and that princesses are sometimes seen engaged in this menial office. Every one so washed receives a certificate of it, and if he wishes, a medal entitling him to beg.

At the ceremony of washing there were several pilgrims that were mere boys, who seemed frightened enough at the sudden notoriety they had acquired. One little fellow in particular attracted my notice. He was half frightened and half roguish; and between the curious gaze of the spectators, the odd position he was in, and the Cardinal in his awful robes at his feet; his countenance had a half scared, half comic look, and his eye rolled from the Cardinal to the spectators, and back again in such queer bewilderment that it quite upset my gravity, and I indulged in one of Leather Stocking's long silent laughs. Truly yours.