They enable the author to introduce some clever writing about

art, and some speculations regarding the Aryan and Semitic races,

evidently with the intention of associating revealed religion with

the idea of superstition. The effect left upon the mind is something

like that produced by a certain class of sermons which we read on

Monday morning in the New-York _Herald_. The novelist is hurried on

at this stage by the necessities of the pamphleteer. Political events

succeed each other so rapidly that he was obliged to send Lothair

as rapidly as possible to the field of battle (his heathen destiny)

against the church.

With exceeding facility the money which was going to build a

cathedral, to please a pious girl, is diverted to aid in blowing up

St. Peter's, and Lothair finds himself as Captain Muriel, in the

field, on the staff of one of his former acquaintances, Captain

Bruges, the red republican general advancing against Rome. Theodora

and Colonel Campian are also with him, the former disguised in male

apparel, and acting as secretary to the general. We suppose her

prayer uttered under the depressing intelligence of the embarkation

of the French troops to assist the holy father, is an expression

of the religion of nature. Why she should pray to God instead of

Jupiter, we confess we do not see, unless in deference to the

opinion of most of the author's readers. He might have fulfilled all

the indications by quoting Pope, and at the same time complimented

the memory of a poet who is getting rather out of date.

However, she hears the French have disembarked, and accordingly

suspends her prayers and recovers her spirits. The impending

catastrophe comes. The tragic is accomplished, and the divine

Theodora is slain. Madre Natura and the secret societies are hurled

against the rock of Peter, and shivered. Theodora is mortally

wounded, and dying, impresses a chaste kiss upon the lips of Lothair,

and exacts the promise never to conform to the Church of Rome.

The next step finds him severely wounded by a French _chassepot_, the

guest of Lord St. Jerome in his palace in Rome, carefully attended by

Sisters of Charity and Clare Arundel. Nature has perished and grace

triumphs. The venom of the anti-Catholic novelist and the malice of

the statesman of the establishment are now revealed in a popish plot,

which is supposed to be hatched by Lothair's Roman Catholic friends,

the prelates of Rome, and, by implication, the holy father.

The object of the conspiracy is to impose upon Lothair and the world

that he was wounded while fighting for the defence of the holy see,

instead of in the ranks of its determined enemies, and to convince

him that the Blessed Virgin Mary personally appeared to rescue him

from inevitable death. These pages enhance the claims of the work

as one of fiction, but detract very much from its reputation as a

specimen of art. The plan is thoroughly un-English, and incompatible

with the characters of the actors as previously portrayed. It is by

no means impossible for the Blessed Virgin or any saint or angel to

appear, and we should be bound to believe the fact if vouched for on

credible testimony.

It is, however, naturally, politically, and religiously impossible

for priests, bishops, and prelates to combine to make any human

being believe a lie, or to palm off a false miracle for any purpose

whatsoever. We are charitably left in doubt as to who believed or

who did not believe in the apparition, but we are treated to a

conversation in which Cardinal Grandison endeavors to make Lothair

believe a lie, and to abuse the enfeebled condition of his brain to

reduce him to a condition of mental and moral imbecility.

Mr. Disraeli evidently expects no advantages from Catholic voters,

or, perhaps, counts on the charity which he abuses.

These passages are the only dangerous ones in the book; they are

skilfully contrived to crystallize wavering minds, especially of

young men of high rank, into determined opposition to the holy

see. They are intended to awaken sympathy for Lothair's helpless

and almost hopeless captivity, and to call forth sentiments of

satisfaction and pleasure at his adventurous escape. He does escape,

and falls into the arms of high-priest Phœbus and two inferior

divinities of Madre Natura. They have little power, however, the

divine Theodora being dead; and our hero, growing _blasé_ if not

wiser and better, subsides into an æsthetical but harmless admiration

of external nature and Euphrosyne. Previously to his quitting Rome,

the author invents a scene which is either a sop to spiritism, or an

insult to his readers' intelligence.

The appearance of the Blessed Virgin, under any circumstances, is

treated with derision; but Theodora, like the Witch of Endor, is

summoned to interview Lothair in the Coliseum, and remind him of

his fatal promise. Perhaps he only means to illustrate a phenomenon

of an over-excited brain, whose circulation is enfeebled by a long

illness and a severe wound. We are left purposely in doubt on this

point, as on many others. This portion of the book contains vivid

and beautiful sketches of camp-life and fighting on a small scale,

of Rome and Italy, the Tyrrhenean Sea and classic isles. Under

the auspices of the Phœbus and Euphrosyne, he is wafted in the

yacht Pan to Syria and the Holy Land, and sinks into a pleasing and

self-satisfied reverie on Mount Olivet.

The descriptions of Judea and Jerusalem, Calvary and Sion, Galilee

and Jordan, Lebanon and Bashan, could be penned only by one who has

the traditions of the Jew, the Roman, and the Christian. There is

the mournful regret of the Jew, the proud remembrance of the Roman,

and the weak and sickly sentimentality of a very doubtful sort of

Christian. They want depth and pathos, and leave the mind disturbed

and dissatisfied. They profane rather than hallow those sacred places

which inspire terror or love in every human breast.

The habits of his English friends whom he meets in the Holy Land,

who made excursions which they called pilgrimages, and feasted,

made love, and hunted, express about the degree of sympathy which

fashionable High-Church Anglicanism has with Calvary. The noble and

gentle Syrian now appears to put the finishing touch to Lothair's

religious experiences. He is a new figure in fiction, a specimen of

oriental Turveydrop, and the patriarch of a new school of Israelitish

evangelicalism. In the absence of authentic data, we should presume

he had descended from a highly respectable family of Pharisees,

which had, in process of time, intermarried with the Sadducees, and

perhaps suffered some slight admixture with the heathen round about.

He happily succeeds in removing all distinct and vivid religious

impressions from the mind of Lothair, and prepares the way, after a

final interview with his former Mazzinian general, who speaks in a

cheerful and airy manner of his failure to blow up St. Peter's, and

consoles Catholic readers with the assurance that the old imposture

is still firmly seated, for his return to England, the arms of Lady

Corisande, and the bosom of the church by law established. Here we

leave him married to an heiress and laid up in lavender, to grow old,

fat, and gouty.

While we may speak with some degree of complaisance of this novel

as a work of art merely, and a picture of life and manners, in

which it is far inferior to similar novels of Bulwer and several

other contemporary writers of fiction, we are compelled to discuss

this production in its political and moral significance in a very

different spirit. Mr. Disraeli must have some powerful motive to

induce him to attack the church and outrage the feelings of Catholics

throughout the world while he himself has no settled and strong

religious convictions of any kind. That motive must be the only

one which would operate upon a mind like his--the desire to get

back to power. He starts the "No-popery" hue and cry, and invents

a most contemptible, shallow, and flimsy plot to influence what

he supposes to be the radical hostility of the English people to

the Church of Rome, and to throw contempt and discredit upon the

conversion of Englishmen of rank, and especially that of the Marquis

of Bute. We think he has not only committed a moral crime, but made

a gross political blunder. We believe there is a profound sympathy

throughout the world in the hearts of simply honest and good people

with the holy father, and that if the question could be tested by

vote to-day, Who is the best man living? Pius IX. would receive an

overwhelming majority. While denouncing in the strongest terms the

baseness of the attempt to impute fraud, chicanery, and political

trickery to the policy and plans of the church, we have reason to

thank the right honorable and learned author for the revelation he

has made of the secret societies. He has had ample means of learning

and understanding their operations, and his implied conclusion is,

that the two great forces arrayed against each other in the modern

world are the Roman Catholic Church and the secret societies, of

whom Masonry is the mother. This is a conclusion which we accept. It

is the everlasting antagonism between the church of Christ and the

church of the devil. We hope the glimpse thus afforded will cause

some of our clergy to reconsider the lenient opinions they sometimes

express in regard to Masonry and its offshoots, and to recognize the

supernatural wisdom that has directed the unwavering opposition which

the church has manifested toward these works of darkness. As a whole,

we do not think _Lothair_ will do much harm. It will provoke much

conversation and discussion. It will be praised, ridiculed, admired,

and contemned, and speedily sink into oblivion, to be read only by

students of literature and those who seek for the light that works of

fiction throw upon contemporary history. It reminds us of something

which occurred a long time ago, and which cannot be offensive to

the right honorable gentleman, who finds a pleasure in insulting

cardinals and bishops, inasmuch as the chief personages in the

transaction are prototypes of himself and his book. It is the story

of Balaam and Balaam's ass. He has attempted to curse, and in fact he

has blessed, and the ass which he is riding only speaks like a human

being when it meets the angel in the Catholic girl Clare Arundel.

FOOTNOTE:

[175] _Lothair._ By the Right Honorable B. Disraeli. Pp. 218. D.

Appleton & Co. 1870.

THE INVITATION HEEDED.[176]

The above is the title of one of the best and most effective

controversial works which we have had the pleasure to read for some

time. For those who believe in any historical Christianity, the

argument contained in it is direct and unanswerable. We pray God it

may have a wide circulation and reach the numerous friends of its

gifted author, who thus seeks, as many converts have done before him,

to show to those he loves the blessed lights which guided him to the

home of truth and peace.

Mr. James Kent Stone is the son of the Rev. Dr. John S. Stone,

a highly respected minister of the Protestant Episcopal Church,

favorably known for many years in Brooklyn as the rector of Christ's

church, and now, we believe, at the head of an Episcopalian seminary

in Cambridge, Mass. He received his academical education at Harvard

College, and afterward spent two years at one of the universities

of Germany. Returning to this country in 1862, he was appointed

professor of Latin in Kenyon College, Ohio, in which office he

remained until 1867, when he was made president of the institution.

He was ordained a minister of the Protestant Episcopal Church in

1866, and shortly after received the degree of D.D. from Racine

College, Wisconsin.

In the year 1868, he was elected to the presidency of Hobart College,

Geneva, New York, where he remained only one year. In September,

1869, he resigned his position and his ministry, to seek retirement

and prepare for his reception into the Holy Catholic Church. The 8th

of December, 1869, the feast of the Immaculate Conception, was the

happy day of his entrance into the communion of Christ, in obedience

to the call of its chief pastor.

In the prefatory chapter the author gives us some insight into the

trials of his own mind. Accepting what he had taken for granted as

the high Anglican position, he felt himself master of the Roman

question. Anglicans were, in his mind, true Catholics, the _only_

true Catholics, and the Reformation was a return to primitive truth

on the part of a favored few, who were to him the only witnesses

of God upon earth. His intellect was too logical not to see that

ritualism, with which he never allied himself, was inconsistent with

any possible degree of Anglicanism.

"If the ritualists were right, the reformers were wrong. The

great sin of schism could never have been justified by any such

paltry differences as separate our 'advanced' friends from

the great Roman communion. The only consistent course for men

to take who believed in the sacrifice of the altar and in the

invocation of saints was to go back, promptly and penitently,

to the ancient church, which had proved its infallibility by

being in the right after all."

In this position, to any unprejudiced eye, he stood upon an

assumption of theology and history which it would seem that the

slightest investigation should destroy. A church which begins by

denying the faithfulness of Christ to his promises, and asserts for

itself claims which render all antiquity a fable, ought not long to

hold the love of an honest heart. It would be hard for any one to

know what the English church really teaches; and if it teaches any

thing, it certainly does so upon human authority, since infallibility

is denied in itself, and in every other communion. When our eyes are

once opened, we wonder we were so long deluded. The real reason why

High-Churchmen do not become Catholics is, that they do not sincerely

wish to know the truth, which calls to sacrifices and sad trials of

the heart.

"If any man love father or mother more than me, he is not worthy

of me." We believe that one earnest prayer for light, with a full

determination to follow it at every cost without hesitation, would

lead to the one home of truth every Anglican, and even every

ritualist. But the misfortune is, that they will not offer any such

prayer. The world of honor or affection in which they move is too

dear to be renounced. Let us hear what Dr. Stone so feelingly tells

of his own experience:

"Time went on; and I was not conscious of the smallest change

in my theological opinions and sympathies; when all at once the

ground upon which I had stood with such careless confidence,

gave way. Like a treacherous island, it sank without warning

from beneath my feet, and left me struggling in the wide

waters. Thanks be to God that I was not left to perish in that

cold and bitter flood, and that my feet so soon rested for ever

on the eternal rock! How it came about--by what intellectual

process my position had been undermined--by what unconscious

steps my feet had been led to an unseen brink, I did not know.

I was only aware of the sudden terror with which I found myself

slipping and going, and the darkness which succeeded the swift

plunge."

* * * * *

"I remembered how St. Augustine, 'one of the profoundest

thinkers of antiquity,' even for four years after he had

become a catechumen under St. Ambrose, was entangled in the

meshes of his Manichæan heresy. I admitted instantly that I,

too, _might be_ under a spell; that my case might be--I do

not dare to say like that of the great saint and father, but

that of the Donatists or the Gnostics; since I was certainly

not more positive in my convictions than they, neither could

I furnish myself with any satisfactory reason for believing

that I was blessed with greater light. And then the hand of God

drew back the veil of my heart; and I saw for the first time,

and all at once, how utterly steeped I had been in prejudice,

how from the beginning I had, without a question or suspicion,

assumed the very point about which I ought reverently to have

inquired with an impartial and a docile mind. I had studied

the Roman controversy; so I thought--if in my short life I

could fairly be said to have studied any thing; but _how_ had

I studied it? Had there ever been a time when it was an _open

question_ in my mind whether the claims of the Roman Church

were valid? Had I begun by admitting that the pope might be

right? Had it ever crossed my thoughts that the church in

communion with the see of Peter might be indeed the one only

Catholic Church of our Lord Jesus Christ? And had I ever

resolved, with all my soul, as one standing on the threshold

and in the awful light of eternity, to begin by tearing down

every assumption and divesting myself of every prejudice, and

_then_, wherever truth should lead the way, to follow--'leave

all and follow'? Alas! never. I had studied simply to combat

and refute. The suggestion that 'Romanism' might after all

be identical with Christianity was preposterous. The papacy

was the great apostasy, the mystery of iniquity; it was the

master-piece of Satan, who had made his most successful attack

upon the church of God by entering and corrupting it. The rise

of the papal pretensions was matter of the plainest history;

and every well-instructed child could point out how one

fiction after another had been grafted into the creed of that

apostate church, until now the simple faith of early days was

scarce recognizable under the accumulated error of centuries.

'History'--who _wrote_ that history? 'Well-instructed

child'--why, that was the very point at issue!

"I saw that I had been guilty of what Bossuet calls 'a

calumny,' and what I now acknowledged to be an act of

injustice, namely, of charging upon Catholics _inferences_

which I had myself drawn from their doctrines, but against

which Catholics indignantly protest. I could not say with St.

Augustine that 'I blushed with joy;' but with shame I blushed,

'at having so many years barked, not against the Catholic

faith, but against the fictions of carnal imaginations. For so

rash and impious had I been, that what I ought by inquiring to

have learned, I had pronounced on, condemning.... I should have

knocked and proposed the doubt, how it was to be believed, not

insultingly opposed it as if believed.'

"This is the 'plunge' I spoke of. I used the word because

it expressed, as well perhaps as any other, the terrifying

rapidity which marked the steps of my intellectual crisis.

Upon some men the discovery of a life-long error may break

gradually; truth may be said to have its dawning; but to me it

came with a shock. The rain descended and the floods came; my

house fell; and great was the fall of it.

"Then followed a sense of blank desolateness. I was groping

among ruins; and wherewith should I go to work to build again?

I do not mean that I faltered. Thank God that he kept me true,

and suffered me not to shrink from the sharp agony which I

perceived was _possibly_ in store for me! To borrow words of

the great father from whose experience I have already drawn,

'God gave me that mind, that I should prefer nothing to the

discovery of truth, wish, think of, love naught besides.' But

the task of reconstruction seemed almost helpless.

"And so I set my face forward with desperate earnestness; and

in due time--it may seem, a very short time--I had not a trace

of doubt left that I had all along been a vain enemy of the

one, catholic, and apostolic church. Why _not_ in a short time?

Why not in a month, or a week, or a day? Is it any reflection

upon truth that she surrenders herself quickly to a soul whose

every nerve is strained in her pursuit? Is it any argument

against the church of God that it is easily identified? Surely,

if there be a kingdom of heaven upon earth, it must be known

by marks which cannot be mistaken. Yes! I knew it when I had

found it. And I found it as in the parable, like a treasure

hidden in a field--in the self-same field up and down which I

had wandered for years, and where I had often trampled it under

my feet. And when I had found it, I hid it, scarce daring to

gaze at its splendor, and crying, as St. Augustine cried, 'Too

late, alas! have I known thee, O ancient and eternal truth!'

And then, for joy thereof, I went and sold all that I had, and

bought that field."

The pages which follow this preface are a brief but cogent exposition

of the convictions which forced themselves upon the mind of the

author. He develops the argument which proved so availing in his

own case, and which, it seems to us, should be satisfactory to any

earnest inquirer. He commences by viewing the Catholic Church in its

historical aspects, as the human eye beholds it, and without any

necessary reference to its supernatural character. The attitude of

the world toward it in the present and in every age is a proof of

its greatness, for men neither fear nor attack an enemy which they

despise. Its wonderful life, in spite of opposition which would long

ago have destroyed any merely human organization, is so striking a

fact that no honest mind can fail to feel its force.

But it is not only as a _living_ body, with a vitality unknown to any

other society, that it impresses our intellects; in its wonderful

life it has been the guardian of morals, and the author of every high

virtue. Civilization owes its very existence to its creed and its

fostering care. And while Protestantism, of only recent origin, has

failed to accomplish any thing but destruction, there is no sign of

decay or feebleness in the ancient and unchanging church.

In the second part of the work the author gives the reasons in full

for this wonderful vitality, and shows how the "Word made flesh"

is the source of life to that body which he fills, and which the

Paraclete sent by him ever animates. The facts of Christianity are

clearly drawn out, and the necessary notes of the church are tried by

the appeal to holy Scripture and tradition. From the conclusion of

this argument there is no escape, and it is well demonstrated that

the religion of Christ stands or falls with the Catholic faith.

In the concluding portion of the book, Dr. Stone looks carefully

at the essential features of that body which the incarnate God,

as a master-builder, framed with one head, and all the needful

constituents of a perfect organism. The office of St. Peter was not

simply an ornamental appendage to the company of apostles, but an

integral and essential part in the complex of visible Christianity.

The church is Christianity in the concrete, and can no more exist

without St. Peter than the human body can live without a head. And to

that head all the functions of the body are subordinated. There is no

fear of any unjust preponderance, or that any member of the body will

lose its activity or honor; for the Holy Ghost lives in the body, and

speaks through the mouth of its head. The functions of the primacy

are displayed with beautiful clearness in this work, which without

any unnecessary words refutes the arguments of objectors, and cuts

to pieces their vain appeals to history or antiquity. We are much

pleased to see how an honest mind, which had no reason to seek for

Catholic truth except for its own sake, has been able to see how all

the functions of the papacy are involved in the very constitution of

the church.

The infallibility of the sovereign pontiff as "the father and the

teacher of all Christians" is directly deduced from the position he

holds in the ecclesiastical body, and the needs of his office. We

earnestly commend this work to those who are searching for truth,

and are willing to embrace it when it presents itself. While there

is no new argument, there is great freshness in the manner in which

it is conducted. There are very many who would not become Catholics

even if Almighty God were to work miracles before their eyes. We say

this advisedly and from sad experience. They are too attached to the

circles in which they move; and even when divine light urges them

keenly, they are willing to take the risk. So they compound with

their consciences by assuming a great spiritual activity in their own

spheres, and the noon of their day of grace passes away. They will

never see again the freshness and life of the morning.

There are others who deal with truth as they would be ashamed to

deal with any affair of human life. They ask that every difficulty,

historical or theological, shall be removed from the vast field of

controversy ere they will yield assent to a proposition they are

forced to admit, which is the key of the whole position. To those

who will not be guided by the light of faith, this is an unending

task. They are worse than the Jews, who would not believe "unless

they saw signs and wonders." The Catholic Church does not offer any

more trials, to the understanding than did the meek and lowly Man

of Sorrows in his sojourn upon earth. All difficulties cannot be

removed at once, nor before the shadows of error have given way to

the bright sun of truth. We cannot see perfectly in the night; yet

there is really but one question to be asked and answered, Did Jesus

Christ, my divine Redeemer, found the Catholic Church, and promise

it perpetuity? If so, then I am bound to accept it as I find it; for

I cannot make a church for myself, nor could he allow the communion

which he formed and vivified to fall into error. If I will not accept

this church, I may wander on the waste without a guide, for there is

no such thing as Christianity for me.

Another thing which this book impresses upon us is very important,

and it is a truth which we have had occasion to know from long

acquaintance with Protestantism. There is only one way of dealing

with those whom we believe to be in error, and that is by always

maintaining with, consistency the principles of our creed. Any

attempt to compromise with Protestants, as if there were not

a diametrical opposition between truth and falsehood, will be

disastrous to their conversion. Men will not give up the associations

of years, renounce position and hopes, and even break family ties,

unless they believe it necessary to their salvation. Nothing less

than this motive can be held up to the wanderer who seeks in vain

from his own intellect the lights that will guide him to a happy

eternity. And any converts that come into the church from any lower

motive are unfit for the graces of faith, and will never imbibe the

spirit of a true Catholic. There is one God and one church, and this

church is a necessity to all to whom its message of mercy comes. It

can stand upon this ground alone as a divine organization, and here

only can demand the obedience of mankind.

There are many souls sadly in need and without a religion, which

is the first want of our nature. There are many who are trying

to gain time against the Spirit of God by postponing the hour of

sacrifice. There are those who, in hollow mockery of their highest

aspirations, are playing with shadows, and deceiving themselves with

counterfeits of the truth. We pray God that this book may fall into

their hands, and be a messenger from on high, bidding them look well

to foundations which are built on the sand, and can never abide the

tempest of human passion, much less the storm of God's judgment.

FOOTNOTE:

[176] _The Invitation Heeded; or, Reasons for a Return to Catholic

Unity._ By James Kent Stone, late President of Kenyon College,

Gambier, Ohio, and of Hobart College, Geneva, New York; and S. T. D.

1 vol. 12mo, pp. 340. New York: The Catholic Publication Society, 9

Warren street. 1870.

THE FIRST ŒCUMENICAL COUNCIL OF THE VATICAN.

NUMBER SIX.

Holy-Week in Rome! How many Christian hearts have yearned for it,

have looked forward to it in hope! How many recall it among the

sweetest and most precious memories of the past! In this sacred

city, and in this most solemn season, a spell is thrown around the

faithful pilgrim; or rather, he is released in a great measure from

the delusive spells of the world. Mind and heart, and, we might

almost say, the body too, seem to live in a new world, in which the

all-absorbing thought and affair is the grand mystery of what God has

done in his infinite power and love to redeem this fallen race of man.

What emotions must fill the catholic heart as, after perhaps a long

and weary journey, one is rapidly borne on by the train from Civita

Vecchia, and knows at last that within one hour he will be in Rome.

The yellow Tiber is flowing by the railway track, sluggishly and

silently, on to the sea. At intervals, antique-looking barges, with

high-peaked prows and high sterns, are floating down, heavily laden

with boxes of statuary and of marbles, or of other works of art--it

may be, of books or of baggage. A couple of oars suffice to keep

the vessel in mid-channel, or to accelerate its motion. Perhaps, if

the course of the sinuous river allows it, a huge lateen-sail on a

heavy stump of a mast helps it onward. Perchance, too, a tiny steamer

meets him, puffing its way downward; or the train overtakes another

breasting the stream and towing up three or four barges, each larger

than itself. The eye travels across the classic river, and roams

over the rolling surface of the campagna, and takes notes of the

many ruins that dot its surface, mostly relics of the mausoleums and

massive tombs with which the Romans of old were wont to line their

roads leading from the city, for miles and miles. At length Rome is

at hand; across the Tiber you see the new St. Paul's _extra muros_,

rising like a phœnix after the ruinous conflagration of 1823, and

not yet entirely finished. The great apostle was buried here after

his martyrdom. Here his body has ever been venerated. Some day, and

soon, you may come hither, and in the splendor of that church look

down into the confession to catch a glimpse of the interior of the

underground crypt, and the sarcophagus within it, in which lie his

mortal remains, and read the large letters on it, _Paullus Apostolus

Martyr_, "Paul, the Apostle and Martyr." On the lofty summit of

the front, plainly visible, is the gigantic statue of the apostle

himself, bearing the emblematic sword--as if standing sentinel and

guarding the approach to the Holy City, which he consecrated by his

preaching and his death. Soon you are on the bridge over the stream,

and all eyes are turned to the left, where above the city walls, now

visible, and the roofs of houses, and the cupolas of many churches,

you see for a moment or two the majestic dome of St. Peter's towering

over all. The road runs around the walls of the city for some

distance before entering, and St. Peter's is soon shut out from view,

only to be replaced by the majestic front of St. John of Lateran's,

near at hand. But on the other side, you see more clearly than before

the campagna with its multitude of ruins, and the Sabine and Alban

Mountains. In the clear atmosphere you can distinguish the vineyards

and olive groves, and dark forests, and cities and towns and pleasant

villas. Along the campagna, from the foot of these hills, there

stretches for miles on miles, like a huge centipede, a long line of

dark and jagged masonry, borne aloft on massive piers and arches. It

is an old aqueduct, or, as your guide-book tells you, three aqueducts

in one. You dash through one of those arches, and the panorama is

changed. Other mountains in the distance, with other cities and

towns, other ruins on the campagna--the ancient basilicas of St.

Lawrence and St. Agnes near at hand. At length you pass through an

archway of the wall into the city. St. John of Lateran's is again

before you. Not distant is the church of Santa Croce; and St. Mary

Major's, with its cupolas, its mediæval belfry, and its obelisk, is

even nearer. The balmy breeze of the afternoon brings to your ear the

sweet chime of its many bells. You are on the Quirinal hill, and can

look over some portion of the city, with its belfries, and cupolas,

its red-tiled roofs, and many-windowed houses. Near by are massive

ruins. The excavations of the railway track have unearthed broken

columns, frescoed walls of ancient rooms, and masses of travertino

masonry, belonging to the walls which Servius Tullius, the fifth king

of Rome, built around the city. Issuing from the depot to seek your

hotel, you are at once before the ruins of the baths of Dioclesian,

and the Cistercian Abbey, and the church of St. Mary degli Angioli.

Your way leads by churches, palaces, ruins, obelisks, statues, and

ever-gushing fountains, through a maze of narrow streets with sharp

turns. You understand that these streets were not laid out, and

the houses built on clear ground. The houses stand more or less on

the foundations of older buildings that have perished, and follow,

to a limited extent, the course of those foundations. As for the

streets, they do as they can, under the circumstances, and seldom

have the same breadth and direction for three hundred yards at a

time. Every thing tells you of olden heathen Rome that has perished,

and of a new Rome that has arisen in its place, not to be compared to

its predecessor in size or in earthly magnificence, but infinitely

superior in spiritual and moral grandeur.

Without an hour's unnecessary delay, you seek St. Peter's. A glance

of wonder at the vastness and majesty of its approaches, of its

front, and its portals, is all you will give now; for the heart is

filled with a sense of that glory of which all this, great as it

is, is but a figure. You pass through the vestibule, large as a

magnificent cathedral, push aside the heavy curtain before the inner

door, and you are within the grand basilica. The light is evenly

diffused and soft, and comes through unseen windows. The temperature

is pleasant. If outside you found the day cold and unpleasant, here

the atmosphere seems warm and agreeable. If outside it was hot, here

you feel it cool and refreshing. As you look at the vast expanse of

the building, you wonder at the solitude. It seems almost vacant;

although, if you could count them, there are hundreds moving about,

or kneeling here and there in silent prayer, and scores are entering

or going out. As you advance up the broad and lofty central nave,

there come from a chapel on the left the rolling sounds of an organ,

and the chorus of many voices, as canons are chanting the daily

vespers in their own chapel. Further on, from the other side, you

hear the murmuring of many voices. A long line of pilgrims, or the

members of some confraternity, have come in procession to pray in

St. Peter's; and as they kneel before the altar, perhaps a hundred

devout men and women from the parish, or of those accidentally in

the church, have gathered around them, and have knelt and join in

their chanted hymns and prayers. On still you proceed, until you are

beneath the lofty dome itself, and have approached the oval railing

of marble which is united to the grand altar, and on which ever burn

a hundred and forty-two lamps. You look over into the opening in the

marble pavement, which is called the confession of St. Peter's, and

you see below the floor of the ancient church, and immediately under

the present high-altar stands the chief altar of that ancient church.

Though you do not see it, you know that still deeper, and below that

altar, is a small chamber in the earth, whose floor and sides and

arched roof are all of large blocks of dressed stone--travertino--and

that in that vaulted chamber stands the marble sarcophagus which

contains the remains of St. Peter, the chief of the apostles, the

founder and the first Bishop of Rome, who was crucified under Nero,

in the year 67, on the hill near by, and whom pious Christian hands

reverently buried in this very spot, ever since sacred to the

followers of Christ. Then it was an obscure spot, outside the city,

near certain brickyards on the Aurelian Way. Now it is covered by the

grandest temple which the world ever saw, on which all that man can

do or give of most precious is offered and consecrated to the service

of religion and the glory of God.

A poor, humble, simple-minded fisherman on the Lake of Genesareth,

in Galilee, whom men called Simon, was chosen by our Lord; his name

was changed to Peter, a rock--for on that rock the church of Christ

would be built; to him were given the keys of the kingdom of heaven,

and he was charged with the duty of confirming his brethren in the

faith. At the command of his Lord, and in the power of the divine

commission, he went forth to his work of zeal and of trials. Like his

divine Master, poor, persecuted, crucified, he was the instrument of

God for mighty things. Empires and kingdoms have perished; but the

church still stands. Dynasties have succeeded dynasties, and have

passed away like the shadows of clouds in spring; but the line of

successors to St. Peter continues unbroken. The intellect and study,

the passions, the violence, and the inconstancy of men have changed

all things human, again and again, within eighteen centuries; but

there remaineth _one Lord_, _one faith_, _one baptism_, one church

of Christ, against which the gates of hell cannot prevail. And here,

to-day, you stand at the earthly centre of that spiritual kingdom, by

the tomb of him to whom Christ gave promises which must ever stand

true, though heaven and earth pass away. You can but kneel and pray

with all the fervor of your heart, taking no account of others near

you, nor of the passage of time. And when at length earnest prayer

has brought calm and holy joy to your soul, you may rise and look up

into the dome, rising four hundred feet above you, with mosaics of

evangelists, and prophets, and angels, archangels, and all the grades

of the celestial host, until in the summit, amid a blaze of light,

the "Ancient of Days" looks down from heaven, in power and majesty,

blessing the worshippers of earth, and bending forward to receive the

prayers of all who come to this holy and consecrated temple to pour

forth their supplications and entreat his mercy. You may examine the

grandiose proportions of nave and transept and aisle, the mosaics,

and marbles, and statues, and saints; you may go forth into the

vast vestibule, guarded at one extremity by an equestrian statue of

Constantine, and at the other by one of Charlemagne; you may linger,

as you look again at the mighty square in front of the basilica, with

its magnificent ever-flowing fountains, so typical of the waters of

life, its colonnades stretching away hundreds of yards on either

side, like arms put forth to embrace the multitudes of the children

of men, and the lofty, needle-formed Egyptian obelisk in the centre,

pointing toward heaven. On its summit is a bronze casket, containing

a portion of the true cross on which the Saviour suffered death; and

at the base is an inscription, brief in words, and here most sublime

in its appositeness. Your heart takes in the full meaning as you

read, _Christ reigns. Christ rules; Christ has conquered. May Christ

defend us from every ill._

This is the spirit, the key-note, as it were, of Christian life in

Rome. We might say, also, that it is the animating principle of her

temporal existence. For, save as the centre of the Catholic Church

and the see of Peter, Rome would quickly perish. On the hills of

the campagna and on the slopes of the mountains around, may still

be seen faint vestiges of cities and towns that were illustrious

centuries before Rome was founded. They have utterly perished.

Others of the same class seem to drag out a lingering existence, as

obscure villages, of no importance, whose names no one mentions, and

whose ancient history is known only to antiquarians. Many a desert,

forest, or plain can show ruins to rival those of the seven hills.

Florence, and many a modern city, can boast of galleries of the

fine arts and museums to rival, if not to surpass, most of those

in Rome. No, it is not for her antiquity, nor for her grand ruins

of past ages, nor for her paintings and sculpture, her marbles and

mosaics, that Rome stands unrivalled in the world. These are but

accessories. Neither they nor any mere human gift can suffice to

explain the mystery of her survival, despite so many convulsions and

shocks, and her continued and prosperous existence, where all around

her has sunk into decay and ruin. Were there no other source of

life, these would soon fail her. The treasures of art and antiquity

in her galleries, and museums, and public buildings would soon be

shattered by spoliation or conquest, and she would be left desolate

and stricken like her crumbling ruins. It is the moral power of

Christianity which gives her a life and a strength beyond that of the

sword. It is the presence of that pontiff who is the visible head

of the church, and the centre of Catholic unity and of spiritual

authority, which saves her from the fate of other cities. Her true

source of life is her religious position. When, centuries ago, the

popes, wearied out by the tumults of the people and the turbulence

of the barons, withdrew for peace' sake, and abode for seventy years

in Avignon, Rome dwindled down to be little better than a village

of ten or fifteen thousand souls. The Romans spoke of that time as

a Babylonian captivity. With the return of the pontiffs, prosperity

was again restored. When, in the early part of the present century,

Pius VII. was borne away and held captive for years in France, and

Rome was annexed to the French empire, the population of the city

quickly sank to one hundred and thirteen thousand, and was rapidly

diminishing. When he returned, in 1814, it began to rise again, and

to-day Rome has nearly double that population. Were the sovereign

pontiff to be driven into exile to-morrow, as Garibaldi and Mazzini,

and the _Italianissimi_ of Florence desire, Rome would again, and

at once, enter on a downward career of misery and ruin. In twenty

years she would lose all her treasures and half of her population.

All this is clear to the Romans themselves; all the more clear from

the fate which has overtaken those cities of the states of the church

which were annexed to the kingdom of Italy eight or ten years ago. No

wonder that, in 1867, neither the artful emissaries of Ratazzi nor

the military parade of Garibaldi was able to gather recruits to their

attempt, either from the country around or from the city itself. The

Romans would shudder at the thought of a renewal of that attempt, as

at a terrible calamity.

But we must not wander away into such considerations. This theme,

though most important to the Romans and often on their lips, is of

too worldly a character. For this month, at least, we leave it aside,

and join that immense crowd of strangers who have filled Rome, drawn

hither to look on the council, and to unite in the solemn offices

of Holy-Week, more solemn and imposing this year than perhaps ever

before, on account of the vast number of bishops uniting in their

celebration. Once, the German element used to stand prominent before

all others, in the crowd of strangers that flocked to Rome for

Holy-Week; afterward the English, and laterly the Americans, became

conspicuous. This year, although they were probably as numerous

as ever, they seemed to sink into the background before the vast

number of French who filled the holy city, and who, almost without

exception, had come in the spirit of earnest, fervent Catholics.

They were fully as numerous and fully as demonstrative as at the

centenary celebration in 1867. Their coming was announced by the

ever-increasing numbers who, each day that a general congregation

of the council was held, gathered at St. Peter's at half-past eight

A.M., to see the bishops enter, or at one P.M., to see them come

forth from the council hall.

In ordinary times, the pope and cardinals celebrate nearly all the

offices of Holy-Week, not in St. Peter's, which is left to the canons

and clergy of that basilica, but in the Sixtine chapel, which is

the pope's court chapel, so to speak, within the Vatican palace.

It is as large as a moderate American church. About one half is

railed off as a sanctuary for the pontiff, and the cardinals and

their attendants, and for the other clergymen who are required or

are privileged to attend the services in this chapel. The remaining

half, assigned to the laity, will hold four or five hundred seated

or standing, as the case may be. The number desiring to enter is so

great that often a seat can be obtained only by coming two or three

hours before the time for commencing the services. This year, if the

bishops were to be present, the whole chapel would have to be used as

a sanctuary, and no room would remain for any of the laity. To avoid

this embarrassment, and the consequent disappointment of thousands,

it was settled that this year the papal services of Holy-Week should

be celebrated, not in this Sixtine chapel, but in St. Peter's itself,

where, besides all the bishops, ten thousand others might attend, and

seem only a moderate-sized crowd grouped close to the sanctuary.

To St. Peter's, then, on Palm-Sunday morning, came the papal choir,

and half a thousand bishops, archbishops, primates, and patriarchs,

the cardinals with their attendants, and the holy father himself,

for the blessing of the palms and the other services of the day.

They were substantially the same as the services in ten thousand

other churches of the Catholic world that day. But here, there were

of course a splendor and magnificence that could be rivalled nowhere

else. The palms to be blessed lay in masses regularly arranged near

the throne of the pontiff. They seemed scarcely to differ from the

branches of our southern palmetto. On many of them the long leaves

were fancifully plaited, so as to represent a branch surrounded by

roses, lilies, leaves, and crosses. The Catholic negroes that came

to the United States from San Domingo years ago used to do something

similar. There is an interesting story about these palms. On the

tenth of September, 1586, Fontana, the architect and engineer of St.

Peter's, was to lift to its present position in the middle of the

square before St. Peter's, the immense unbroken mass of stone which

formed an Egyptian obelisk that had been erected in the amphitheatre

of Nero, and still stood not far off, its base buried in the earth

that centuries had accumulated around it. It was a mighty, a perilous

work, to transport this obelisk, three hundred yards, ever keeping

it in its upright position, and at the end to lift it up and plant

it on the lofty pedestal. Pope Sixtus V. and all Rome were there to

look on. In default of steam-engines and hydraulic rams, not then

invented, Fontana used a huge scaffolding, ropes, blocks and tackle,

and windlasses, and hundreds of operatives. Any mistake or confusion

as to orders or delay in executing them might overthrow the immense

pillar, and prove disastrous to the work, and fatal perhaps to

scores of lives. In view of the emergency, a kind of military law

was proclaimed, whereby all lookers-on were to keep silence, under

penalty of death. Fontana, standing aloft, gave his orders, the

wheels were turned, the ropes tightened, the mighty mass slowly moved

on, the pedestal was reached. The obelisk was lifted up. Hours rolled

on, and still it rose gradually but truly. At length it stood within

a few feet of its destined position. But it would go no farther.

The ropes, bearing the strain of the weight for so many hours, had

stretched, and some were threatening to snap. Fontana stood pale and

speechless at the impending disaster, which he now saw no way of

averting. Suddenly a clear, manly voice was heard from out of the

crowd, "_Wet your ropes! wet your ropes!_" Fontana at once seized

the happy thought. The ropes were wetted, swelled and contracted

to their original state, and soon the huge obelisk stood upright

and firm on the solid pedestal, and the daring work was crowned

with complete success. Meanwhile, the officers had seized the man

that cried out; he was brought before the pope, who thanked him and

embraced him. He was asked who he was, and what reward he desired.

His name was Bresca, a sailor from San Remo, near Nice. His family

owned a palm-grove there, and the reward he asked was the privilege

of supplying St. Peter's every year for ever with the palm-branches

to be blessed and used on Palm-Sunday. It was granted. Nearly three

centuries have passed, but the family of Bresca is still at San Remo,

has still palm-groves, and every year there comes a small vessel

from that port, laden with the palm-branches for St. Peter's. May it

continue to come three hundred years hence!

The holy father, in that clear, sweet, and majestic voice, for which

he is remarkable, chanted the prayers for the blessing of the palms.

To the blessing succeeded the distribution. One after another, the

cardinals gravely advanced, the long silk trains of their robes

rustling on the carpet as they moved forward; each one received a

palm-branch; the oriental patriarchs, the primates, and a number of

the archbishops and bishops, as representatives of their brethren,

followed after the cardinals, and received each his branch. Meanwhile

the choir was singing the exquisite anthems, "Pueri Hebræorum,"

appointed for that occasion. It was a simple, yet a most effective

and thrilling scene. The cardinals stood in their long line, the

rich gold ornamentation of their chasubles shining brightly on the

violet silk, on their heads the mitre or the red _calotte_ of their

rank. Before each one stood his chaplain in dark purple, holding the

decorated palm-branch, like a lance. In the middle, as the lines of

Oriental and Latin prelates in their rich and varied robes approached

the holy father, or retired, each one bearing his palm-branch, there

was a perpetual changing and shifting and intermingling of colors,

as in a kaleidoscope. Near the pope, stood the senator and other

civil officers of Rome, in their mediæval mantles. The Swiss guard,

in a military dress of broad stripes, red and yellow, or black and

yellow, some of them wearing steel corselets and breastplates, and

all wearing the plumed Tyrolean military hat; they stood motionless

as statues, holding their bright halberds upright. The Noble Guard,

in their rich uniform, stood here and there; and on both sides,

line after line of bishops, robed in cappa magnas, formed a massive

and imposing background. Add to all these, the religious orders,

Carmelites, Dominicans, Franciscans of every family, Augustinians,

Benedictines, Cistercians, Canons Regular, Theatines, Servites,

Crociferi, and many others, each in the costume of his order

or congregation, and all bearing branches of blessed palm. Add

still the continuous chanting of those unrivalled voices and the

indistinct bass murmur or rustling of the vast crowd. It was a scene

which carried one away. You did not strive to catch every note of

Palestrina's beautiful composition. It was enough to drink in the

sound. You scarcely thought of reciting the words of a prayer--there

are none assigned for the time of distribution specifically--you

found it easier to indulge a train of devotional thought, and to

unite with it something of pious admiration.

Next followed the procession in commemoration of the solemn entry of

our Saviour into Jerusalem, five days before his Passion. Leaving the

sanctuary, the long lines of singers, of the religious orders, of

bishops and prelates, and of cardinals, and finally the pope with his

attendants, passed down the nave of the church, out by one door into

the vestibule, and, returning by another into the church, again came

up the nave and entered the sanctuary. The strains of the "Gloria,

Laus, et Honor," the hymn for that procession, always beautiful, and

infinitely more so when sung to-day by this choir, swelled as the

procession approached you, became fainter and sweeter as it passed

on. You caught but a faint murmur of melody while they were in the

vestibule, and the notes rose again as the procession entered the

church and moved slowly onward to the sanctuary.

Then came the high mass, which an archbishop celebrated, by special

permission, at the high-altar. Without such permission, no one save

the holy father himself celebrates there. During this mass the entire

history of the Passion of our Lord, as given in the Gospel of St.

Matthew, is sung. On Good-Friday, the same history is sung, as given

by St. John. Perhaps no portion of the chants of the church in use at

the present day is as ancient and venerable as the mode in which the

Passion is chanted. The old classic Greek style is preserved, and,

fundamentally at least, the melody must be Grecian, although perhaps

somewhat changed to suit our modern gamut. The ordinary mode is to

distribute the whole among three singers, one of whom chants all

the narrative or historical portion. Whenever the Saviour speaks, a

second singer chants his words. A third singer comes in at the proper

times to chant whatever is said by others. In the Sixtine chapel,

and here in St. Peter's to-day, there is a slight change made, which

from its appropriateness and effective character we cannot but look

on as in part, at least, a return toward the original idea of such a

chant. One singer, an exquisite tenor, took up the narrative portion

in a _recitativo_, closing each sentence with the modulations with

which many of our readers must be well acquainted. A baritone voice,

one of the richest, smoothest, most majestic, and most plaintive and

sympathetic we ever heard, chanted the Saviour's part. There was not

in it a note that we had not heard before scores of times, but never

as they were now chanted. One could, it seemed, listen to him for

ever; when he closed one sentence, your eye ran along the page to

mark the verse, at which you would hear him again. As he uttered the

words, you drank them in, in their sense rather than in the music,

realizing something of their pathos and majesty. It was as if in

truth you stood near him in Gethsemane, before Annas, and Caiaphas,

before Pilate; as if you walked with him along the sorrowful way, as

if you stood so near the cross on Calvary that every word he spoke,

every tone of his voice, entered your heart. Years cannot efface from

our minds the memory of that wondrous chant. It seems still to ring

in our ears. The portions usually assigned to a third singer are

here distributed among several, who chant singly, or together, as

the words are spoken by one, or by several, or by a multitude. Thus,

a soprano and a contralto unite to sing the words of the two false

witnesses. The mutual contradiction of the witnesses is indicated by

the irregularity of the time, and the discords that are repeatedly

introduced. When the crowd cries out, "_Away with him; crucify him;

we will have no king but Cæsar_," the whole choir bursts forth. You

hear the trembling shrill tones of age, the hissing words of irate

manhood, the shrill trebles of excited women, the full incisive words

of the priests, and the clamors of the unthinking rabble. When they

cry, "_His blood be upon us and upon our children_," the voices, full

at the beginning, grow tremulous and weaker as they proceed, and some

are silent, as if reluctant to pronounce the terrible words of the

imprecation. And when the soldiers, after scourging the Saviour, and

putting on his head the crown of thorns, place the reed in his hands

and kneel before him, saluting him, _Hail, King of the Jews_, the

words are sung by three or four voices with a softness, a sweetness,

and an earnestness which would make you think that, for the moment,

and in spite of themselves, they felt the divine truth of the words

they intended to utter in mockery.

In the entire cycle of music there is nothing so sublime and so

touching as the Passion of our Lord, sung by the papal choir in St.

Peter's.

On Tuesday, in Holy-Week, a general congregation of the council was

held in the usual form. As we stated in our last number, the fathers

voted on the entire draught, then before them, either _placet_,

_placet juxta modum_, or _non placet_. We need add nothing to the

account we then gave.

On Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday afternoons the bishops attended

in St. Peter's at the office of the Tenebræ. On each occasion,

twenty-five or thirty thousand persons about half-filled the church,

to hear the lamentations, and, above all, the far-famed Misereres

heretofore only to be heard in the Sixtine chapel.

The papal choir is composed of about twenty-five singers. Basses,

baritones, contraltos, tenors, and sopranos, all chosen voices of

the first quality, and all trained for years in the special style

of singing of this choir, different from that of any other we ever

heard, and in the peculiar traditions as to the precise style in

which each of their principal pieces should be executed. They say

themselves, that without this special training the mere notes of the

score would by no means suffice to guide another choir, at least so

as to produce the marvellous effects which they attain. They have in

their repertory over forty Misereres, composed by their different

_maestri_, or chiefs, during the last three centuries. Not more than

four of these are placed by them in the first rank. On Wednesday,

that by Baini was sung; on Thursday, that of Allegri, and on Friday,

one by Mustafa, the present leader of the choir.

That of Allegri is acknowledged to be the best. He was born in Rome

in 1560, and became a celebrated composer and singer. In 1629, he

entered this choir, at the age of sixty-nine, and was its leader for

twenty-three years, dying in 1652 at the ripe age of ninety-two. His

Miserere is of such incontestable merit that it is always one of the

three sung each year, and not unfrequently it has been sung twice in

the same year.

Baini was born in Rome in 1775, entered the papal choir at about the

age of thirty, became _maestro_ or leader in 1824, and died about

twenty years ago. He was the most learned musical scholar of Italy in

his day, and published a number of works. As a composer, he ranked

very high. His Miserere is esteemed next to that of Allegri. There

is a difference between them. The older composer was filled with a

sense of the full meaning of the psalm as a whole, and varies the

expression in each verse according to the sense of the entire verse.

Baini, on the contrary, is disposed to dwell on the special sense

of each word and minor phrase, bringing these points into higher

relief than Allegri would. To many, on this account, his Miserere

is more intelligible and more pleasing than the other. But a longer

familiarity with both invariably reverses this decision.

Mustafa, the present _maestro_ of the papal choir, was likewise

born in Rome, and entered the choir thirty years ago, as a soprano

singer. On Baini's death, he succeeded to his post. No one in Italy

has a more thorough and scientific knowledge of vocal music than he

has; and his compositions are among the choicest _morceaux_ of the

choir here. His Miserere has several advantages. It was written for

the voices now in the choir, and its execution is directed by the

composer himself. There is more of the modern style about it than we

find in the other two. Hence it is always most pleasing, for style,

and the precision and brilliancy with which it is sung.

But besides the artistic excellence which the few trained to analyze

and examine such compositions can alone discover and discuss

suitably, there is a something about these Misereres which all can

feel, and which is far more religious in its character. Once enjoyed,

it is never forgotten. As the long office of matins and lauds is

slowly chanted, psalm succeeding psalm, and lamentation following

lamentation, the lighted candles on the triangular candelabrum are

all gradually extinguished, save one, and then, one by one, those

on the altar. The shades of evening are coming on. The light of day

has become almost a twilight, adding a mysterious indefiniteness

to the immensity of the vast edifice. Only through the glory, or

circular stained window in the apsis of the basilica, there comes in

a golden light from the western sky. The cardinals and bishops are

all kneeling in their places, the multitude of twenty-five thousand

that have waited two hours for this moment are hushed to deadest

silence. A wailing voice is heard--faint, sad, almost bursting into

sobs--_Have mercy on me, O God!_ Another and another joins in the

entreating cry. It swells and rises, sometimes in passionate, loud

supplication, sometimes lowered to broken tones, scarce daring

to hope, until an angel voice leads on, _According to thy great

mercy_. Verse after verse the wailing, pleading prayer continues, in

combinations of matchless voices, and in harmonious strains never

heard or dreamed of before. The multitude listen, suppressing their

breathing lest they may lose a single one of the silvery tones. Some

are kneeling, others who have not room to kneel, in that closely

packed crowd, stand with their heads sunk on their breasts. All are

silent, yet many a moving lip tells you they are repeating the words

with the singers, that they may more fully drink in the sense and the

appropriateness of the music. When the last verse closes, there is

a sigh, as if they waked from a trance and found themselves in this

life again.

On Thursday, Friday, and Saturday there were the usual services

in St. Peter's, in the forenoon. On the first day, the bishops

were required to attend in white copes and mitres. A cardinal sang

high-mass, after which came the usual procession of the blessed

sacrament, which is conveyed from the main altar to a repository

prepared to receive it. This year the chapel of the canons was used

for the purpose. Cross and candles and incense led the way. The

canons and beneficiaries and other clergy of St. Peter's followed,

each one bearing a lighted waxen candle, and responding to the

chanted hymns of the choir. A certain number of archbishops and

primates came next, and after them the cardinals, all likewise with

their lighted tapers. The pontiff himself bore the blessed sacrament,

under a rich canopy of gold cloth, upheld on eight staffs of silver

gilt, borne by his attendants. Cardinals and clergy, Swiss Guard and

Noble Guard, walked slowly on either side; the heads of religious

orders followed, bearing their lights; and after them, not two and

two, as the regular procession had walked, but more closely pressed

together, came the hundreds of bishops. The church, at least the

half of it toward the altar, was packed and jammed. Not without

some effort had the Swiss and the lines of soldiers kept a small

passage-way clear for the procession from the main altar to the

chapel of the canons. As the sound of the well-known hymn, the "Pange

lingua," was recognized, and the procession started, all who could

knelt; those who had not room to do so bowed reverently until the

pontiff had passed and had entered the chapel, and the amen of the

closing prayer rang through the church.

At once there was a rushing to and fro of the thirty thousand people

in the church, one half seeking to pass out to the square in front or

to ascend to the broad summit of the colonnade on each side of it;

for the pontiff would, in a few minutes, give the solemn pontifical

blessing from the loggia or balcony over the main door of St.

Peter's. The other half took the occasion to occupy the vacant space

closer to the main altar, striving to secure the best positions, from

which to witness, as well as they could, the ceremonies to follow in

the sanctuary, after the blessing, and trusting that on Easter-Sunday

they might be able to behold and to receive the blessing with grander

ceremonial than to-day. The holy father and the cardinals came forth

from the chapel, and, leaving for a time the basilica by a side-door,

passed into the Vatican palace, and from thence to the vast hall

immediately over the vestibule of St. Peter's. Borne in his curule

chair, he advances to the loggia, or open balcony projecting in the

middle toward the square, and looks out on the city, and on the

thousands below, that kneel as he stands erect, and, raising both

arms aloft toward heaven, calls down on them the blessing of God the

Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. The solemn and sweet tones of

that majestic voice ring through the square, and the words are heard

distinctly by the multitudes. A cardinal reads and publishes the

indulgence, and the pontiff and the cardinals retire.

Back into the church the mass of people come, a living torrent.

In twenty minutes the cardinals and the bishops are again in the

sanctuary, while the movement and rustling of the moving and

struggling crowd fills the church with the sound as of a deep,

continuous, and subdued bass note. At one side of the large

sanctuary, which is about one hundred and thirty feet deep, and

seventy-five feet broad, an ascent of eight or ten steps leads to

a broad platform visible to all. On this platform attendants move

about, preparing all that is necessary for the next portion of the

ceremony, the _mandatum_, or washing of feet. Soon a line of thirteen

figures, dressed as pilgrims in long white woollen robes reaching to

the instep, ascend to the platform, and the attendants conduct them

to the seats that are prepared. They are priests from abroad who

have come to Rome and all eyes are turned to inspect them as they

stand ranged in a line. One is an old man stooped with age, with

large, piercing dark eyes, and heavy eyebrows, long aquiline nose

and high cheek-bones, and ruddy cheeks. The olive tint of his skin

looks darker by contrast with his ample flowing beard of patriarchal

whiteness. He is from the east. Perhaps those two other younger ones,

with full black beards, are from the east likewise. To judge by his

almond eye, the long and regular features, and the darkish skin,

another was an Egyptian. Of a fifth there could be no mistake. He was

from Senegambia in Africa, and his surname was _Zamba_, or, as we

call it in America, _Sambo_. His jet black skin, his negro features,

the blue spectacles he wore, and his instinctive attitude of dignity

made him the most conspicuous in the number. They entered, wearing

tall white caps, in shape something like stove-pipe hats without any

rim, and with a tuft on the summit; long white dresses of the shape

you may see in the miniatures of illuminated manuscripts written a

thousand years ago; and even, their stockings and shoes were white

as their dress. As all were ready, the pontiff enters, and the choir

intones the antiphon, "Mandatum novum"--"A new command I give you."

Some preliminary prayers are chanted, and the pontiff, putting off

the cope, but retaining his mitre, is girded with an apron, and

ascends the platform. An attendant unlaces the shoe on the right foot

of the first pilgrim, and lets down the stocking. Other attendants

present the ewer of water and the towels; the pontiff, stooping down

or kneeling, washes the instep, dries it with a towel, and kisses

it. While the attendants raise the stocking and lace the shoe, the

holy father gives to the pilgrim a large nosegay, which in former

times contained a coin to aid him on his journey homeward. He did

the same one by one to all of them. During this touching ceremony

the choir continued to sing anthem after anthem; but few present did

more than listen vaguely and enjoy the sound, so preoccupied, or

rather so fascinated, all seemed to be by a ceremony so rarely used

in the church, and so fully recalling our divine Saviour's act and

instruction before the Last Supper. Few have ever seen it in church,

save as to-day here in St. Peter's, on Holy-Thursday. It may be said

to be carried out, too, on a larger scale and in a practical way,

all these days in Rome. There is a large institution here called

_La Santissima Trinità dei Pellegrini_, where, during Holy-Week,

thousands of poor pilgrims, who have come on foot, and reach Rome

weary and foot-sore, are received, and supplied with two meals a day

and beds for three days and nights. There is one department for the

men, and another for the women and children. Each evening, after

the conclusion of the services in the churches, they return to the

institution. Cardinals, bishops, priests, and laymen in numbers,

nobles and private individuals, are there, and wash their feet

(thoroughly) and wait on them at the table. In the female department

princesses, duchesses, and ladies of every degree and station,

titled and untitled, are there to perform the same offices for the

women and children. All these ladies belong to several charitable

confraternities and associations in the city; and by one of their

rules no one of them is allowed the privilege of uniting in this work

in Holy-Week unless she has, during the past year, paid at least a

stated number of charitable visits to the prisons and hospitals. We

do not know whether the men have the same admirable rule.

After the washing of the feet in St. Peter's, the pope retired,

and the pilgrims followed. The services in the church itself were

over. But there was something else, which as many as could wished

to see. The pope was to serve the pilgrims at table. In the large

hall mentioned above as being situated over the vestibule of the

church, and from which the pope went out to the loggia to give the

blessing, a long table had been prepared and decorated. Soon the

pilgrims entered and stood at their places; and the hall was filled

with thousands of spectators. The pontiff came in, attended by three

or four cardinals, his own attendants, and a number of bishops. He

said the grace, and a monsignore read a portion of the Scriptures,

and then continued to read a book of sermons. Meanwhile, the pope was

passing to and fro, from one end of the table to the other, helping

each one to soup, to fish, and to wine; and finally, giving them his

special blessing, he retired. The services had commenced at nine A.M.

It was now two P.M.

The holy oils were blessed, not in St. Peter's, but in St. John

Lateran's; for St. Peter's is the cathedral of the pope as Pope and

Bishop of the Catholic Church. St. John's is his cathedral as Bishop

of Rome.

On Friday morning the offices in St. Peter's were precisely the same

as in every other cathedral, differing only in the presence of the

sovereign pontiff and the cardinals, and the large number of bishops,

who attended robed in purple _cappa magna_. The "Improperia," sung

while the pope, the cardinals, and the bishops approached to kneel

and kiss the cross, is accounted the master-piece of Palestrina.

It is unequalled in its expression of tenderness and of sorrowful

reproach. Sung as it was by that unrivalled choir, on this day,

when the church is desolate and stripped of all ornament, and the

ministers at the altar are robed in sombre black; when burning lights

and the smoke of incense are banished from the sanctuary; when one

thing only is presented--the image of the crucified Redeemer; one

theme only fills prayers, anthems, and hymns alike--the sorrows and

death of our Lord on Calvary--its effect seemed overpowering. You

thought not of the wondrous charm of the voices; you heeded not the

antique melody or the skilful harmonies, as word after word, clearly

and distinctly uttered, fell on your ear; the music but rendered

more clear and emphatic their sense as it sunk into your heart. You

felt that the reproaches of the loving and forgiving Saviour were

addressed to you personally, and you bowed in sorrowful confusion as

well as in adoration, while you saluted him in the words of early

Christian worship, AGIOS O THEOS.

During the service, that portion of his Gospel in which St. John

narrates the history of the Passion, was chanted in the same manner

as had been the narration by St. Matthew on the preceding Sunday.

Prepared as all were, by the services of the days past and by the

sublime "Improperia" we had just heard, words cannot express the

awe which came on them as they listened to this vivid recitation in

music of that grand drama of Good-Friday on the summit of Calvary.

It is on such occasions, and with singing like this, that one

realizes what force and truth and majesty there is in perfect music,

inspired and consecrated by religion.

On Saturday, the bishops were divided between St. Peter's and St.

John's. In the latter church, besides the usual services, there were

also the instruction of catechumens, the baptism of converts with

the form for grown persons, and at the mass a grand ordination, at

which tonsure, all the minor orders, subdeaconship, deaconship, and

priesthood were conferred on those who had been examined and found

worthy of the grades to which they aspired. In all, they were about

sixty.

In St. Peter's, the services were only the usual ones of the

church for this day--the blessing of the font, the chanting of the

prophecies, the blessing of the paschal candle, and the solemn

high-mass celebrated by a cardinal. The pope was present. One would

have thought that, at his age, after the fatigues of the days past,

and in view of the long functions of the morrow, it would be proper

that he should have one day of quiet, or at least of comparative

quiet. But Pius IX. never thinks of sparing himself. Many of the

bishops were at St. John's. But those who were in St. Peter's heard

the grand mass "of Pope Marcellus," as it is called, by Palestrina.

This is the mass which was composed and sung in 1565, and which,

it is said, won from the pope and cardinals the reversal of an

absolute prohibition they had almost determined on, of all music and

singing in church save the Gregorian chant, on account of the bad

taste and abuses of musicians and singers, who introduced profane

and worldly music even into the mass. No one who heard those grand

religious choral strains could fail to see how solemnly, and fully,

and appropriately they expressed in music the sublime character of

the service. Such music does not distract; on the contrary, it fixes

the thoughts, and soothes and guides the feelings into a channel of

devotion. It would have been impossible for the cardinals, after

listening to this exquisite mass, to arrive at a different conclusion.

From Thursday until Saturday, all the bells of Rome had been silent.

There was a visible shade of sorrow on the city, a public grief,

as it were, for the tragedy of Calvary. But in view of the joyous

resurrection close at hand, this silence of sorrow is soon to pass

away. It was near eleven A.M. when the high-mass commenced at St.

Peter's. At the Gloria, a signal was given, and the gigantic Bourdon

and the other bells of the basilica broke into a grand peal. The

guns of St. Angelo answered, and, quick as sound could travel, all

the thousand bells of all the steeples and belfrys of Rome, without

exception, joined in the clamorous yet not unpleasant or unmusical

chorus. The rooks, and ravens, and doves, and swallows flew to

and fro, frightened from their nests, half-stunned, and utterly

distracted. When the pealing chorus ended--and it lasted for a full

half-hour--Rome had put off her sadness, and friends were exchanging

the happy salutations of Easter.

In the afternoon an Armenian bishop celebrated high-mass, according

to their rite, at four P.M. in one church, and, at the same hour,

a Chaldean prelate celebrated high-mass, according to his rite, in

another. In the earlier centuries, this mass of the resurrection was

celebrated by all after midnight, on Saturday night. The Orientals

have brought it forward to Saturday afternoon; the Latins have

gradually advanced it to the forenoon. Sunday dawned, a bright,

clear, pleasant, cloudless Italian spring day. At an early hour

carriages of every kind were pouring in long lines over every bridge

across the Tiber, and hurrying on to St. Peter's, and tens of

thousands were making their way thither on foot. By nine o'clock, the

sanctuary is filled with bishops robed in white copes and mitres,

and with cardinals in richly adorned white chasubles. Soon the Swiss

Guard take their places, and the Noble Guard appear in their richest

uniform. Lines of Pontifical Zouaves and the Legion of Antibes, and

other soldiers, keep a lane open up the middle of the church, through

the immense crowd of, it was estimated, forty thousand persons, from

the door of the sanctuary. One tribune on the south side of the

sanctuary was filled with members of various royal families now in

Rome, some on a visit, some staying here permanently. On the other

side was a tribune for the diplomatic corps, which was filled with

ambassadors, ministers resident and envoys, in their rich uniforms

and covered with jewelled decorations.

A burst from the band of silver trumpets over the doorway of the

church told us that the holy father was entering. Down the lane

through the vast crowd might be seen the cross slowly advancing. Then

was heard the voice of the choir of the canons, welcoming the pontiff

to the basilica, and then aloft, higher than the mass that filled the

church, he was seen slowly borne on in the curule chair, robed in a

rich cope of white silk, heavy with gold embroidery and wearing the

tiara. Slowly advancing, and giving his blessing to the multitudes

on either side, he reached the chapel of the blessed sacrament,

descended from the chair, and, with the cardinals accompanying him,

and his other attendants, knelt for some moments in adoration. Then,

rising, he ascended the chair again, and the procession pursued its

way through the crowd, now more closely packed than ever, to the

sanctuary. Here the pontiff descended again to his robing throne at

the epistle side of the altar. The choir commence the chanting of the

psalms of terce and sext. Meanwhile the pontiff was robed for mass,

and the cardinals, the patriarchs, and primates, and a certain number

of the archbishops and bishops, as representatives of their brethren,

paid him the usual homage. This over, solemn high-mass commenced in

the usual form. After incensing the altar at the Introit, he passed

to his regular throne at the end of the sanctuary, just opposite the

altar, and fully one hundred and twenty feet distant. There beside

him stood a cardinal priest and two cardinal deacons; the senator

of Rome, in his official robes and cloak of yellow and gold, with

his pages of similar costume, the _conservatori_ of the city; and

on the steps, around the throne, stood, or were seated, some twenty

assistant bishops; on either side six lines of seats stretching

down to the altar were occupied by the cardinals and by a great

mass of prelates, Latin and Oriental, all in the richest vestments

appropriate to this the greatest festival of the church.

Never was solemn high-mass celebrated with more splendor in St.

Peter's than on this Easter-Sunday. To be privileged to assist at it

amply repays many a one for all the time and all the fatigue of a

journey to Rome. The holy father officiates with a fervor and intense

devotion which lights up his countenance. The venerable Cardinal

Patrizi, who stood by his side, was the very personification of

sacerdotal dignity. The mitred prelates in their places, many of them

gray-haired or bald, or bent with age and labors, seemed radiant

with the holy joy of the occasion. The masters of ceremony and the

attendants moved gravely and reverently, as their duties called them

from one part of the sanctuary to another. Even the vast crowd of

forty or fifty thousand that filled the church were penetrated with

reverent awe, and sank almost into perfect stillness. Nothing was

heard save the noble voice of the sovereign pontiff chanting the

prayers, and the responding strains of the choir. Yet, in comparison

with the music we had heard during the week, the Gloria and the

Creed, super-excellent though they were, seemed in some measure to

belong to the earth. After the subdeacon had sung the epistle in

Latin, a Greek subdeacon, in the robes of his Greek rite, sung it

in Greek; and similarly a Greek deacon followed the Latin deacon in

chanting the Gospel. A musical antiquarian would have found in the

peculiar modulations of their chant traces of the ancient eastern

style of music, going back, perhaps, in those unchanging people to

the days of Greek classic civilization. The most impressive moment

in the mass was certainly the elevation. At a signal, you heard

the voice of the officers giving the command, and the thud on the

floor as the companies of soldiers simultaneously grounded arms,

and every man sank on one knee. The Noble Guard, too, sank on one

knee, uncovered their heads, and saluted with their bright swords.

The Swiss Guard stood erect and presented arms. In the sanctuary,

of course, all were kneeling. There was a sound like the rushing of

a wind through a pine forest as the vast multitude strove to sink

down too. And then came a dead silence over all. As the pontiff

raised aloft the sacred host, turning toward every quarter of the

church, there came, faint, and soft, and solemn at first, and

gradually stronger and more emphatic, the thrilling tones of those

silver trumpets placed over the doorway and out of sight. Their

slow, majestic melody, and their rich accords, and the repeated and

prolonged echoes of those notes of almost supernatural sweetness,

from chapels and nave and dome, produced an effect that was

marvellously impressive. As if fascinated by them, no one moved from

his kneeling position, or even raised his head, until the last note

of the strain and its receding echoes had died away, and the choir

went on to intone the "Benedictus qui venit."

At the conclusion of the mass, the pope unrobed, put on his cope and

tiara again, and retired in the same manner as he had entered. At

once the vast mass of people began to pour forth from St. Peter's,

to make their way to the front; for the pope would soon give his

solemn benediction _urbi et orbi_--to Rome and to the world. We

have already described the square before St. Peter's. It is about

fifteen hundred feet long, and averages nearly four hundred feet in

breadth. All during the mass it had been gradually filling up, and

when now new torrents of men came pouring out of the church, the

whole place became so packed that one standing on the lofty colonnade

on the side of the Vatican and looking down on the square, perceived

that only here and there even small portions of the ground remained

visible, such was the closeness with which men and women stood packed

together. Especially was this true on the vast esplanades more

immediately before the church, and the broad steps leading up to it.

Here were gathered all who wished to be as near as possible to the

pope during the blessing, or to get a sight from this elevation of

the vast basin of the square thoroughly packed with human beings. Nor

was the multitude confined to the square alone; on the colonnades, on

either hand, stood thousands and thousands, as in favored positions.

Every window and balcony looking out on the square was thronged.

Every roof had its group, and away down the two streets leading up

the square from the bridge of St. Angelo the crowd appeared equally

dense. A military man present, whose experience had qualified him

to estimate large masses, judged that there were present at least

one hundred and twenty thousand persons. Mingling among them, you

heard every language of Europe, many of Asia, and, it was said, half

a dozen from Africa. It was a representation of the world which the

pontiff would bless. From all this multitude, standing in the bright

sunlight, which a north wind rendered not disagreeable, came up a

roar, as it were, of rushing waters, mingling the hum of so many

voices with the blaring of an occasional military trumpet from the

troops, and the neighing of horses.

Soon the regimental bands are heard to salute the approach of his

holiness, invisible as yet to the crowd. A score of mitred prelates

appear at the large Balcony of the Blessing. They look out in wonder

and admiration at the scene below, and retire to allow another score

to view it; a third group does the same. These are the bishops who

have accompanied the pope from the sanctuary to the Vatican, and from

the Vatican hither. Of the others, some are down on the square with

the people, more are on the colonnades, in places reserved for them.

After the bishops, the cardinals are seen to fill the balcony once

or twice, and then the pontiff himself comes in view, borne forward

on his curule chair. He is out on the loggia itself. Ordinarily,

besides the ornamental drapery which we see decorating the columns

and architrave and tympanum, and the railing in front, there projects

overhead a large awning to screen him from the sun. But to-day the

north wind does not allow it to stand. Fortunately, the weather

hardly calls for it. He is scarcely inconvenienced by the rays of the

sun as they are reflected from his rich gold-cloth mitre, studded

with precious stones, and from the massive gold embroidery of his

cope. The military music has ceased, and there is the silence of awe

and of earnest expectation. Those that are near hear the tones of

some one chanting the Confiteor beside the pontiff. Two bishops hold

the large missal from which he chants the prayers in a clear, rotund,

and musical voice. The people are kneeling, and twice is heard the

response of united thousands--_Amen_. The book is laid aside. The

pontiff rises and stands erect, looks up to heaven, and, with a

majestic sweeping motion, opens wide his arms and invokes on all the

blessing of heaven. His voice is given forth in its very fullest

power, and even at the furthermost end of the square the kneeling

crowd sign themselves with the sign of the cross as they distinctly

hear the words: "_Benedictio Dei omnipotentis, Patris, et Filii,

et Spiritus Sancti, descendat super vos et maneat semper." May the

blessing of Almighty God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,

descend upon you and abide with you for ever._ And there came up a

swelling _Amen_. As the pontiff sank back on his chair, the kneeling

crowd arose, and there burst forth from every portion of it a loud

acclaim of _vivas_, of good wishes, of acclamations, that died away

only as the pontiff retired from view, and as the cannon of St.

Angelo commenced the national salute.

It was a ceremony fitted by its majesty and its magnificence to

close the grand ceremonies of Easter-Week. Art cannot do justice to

it. Painting, tied down by the laws of perspective, cannot portray

what the eye sees on every side, and does not pretend to give the

words of solemn prayer, of impressive benediction, and the outburst

of acclamation which we heard. Words must fail to convey the

emotions that filled thousands of hearts that day, at the sublime

and moving spectacle. It was a sensible testimony of the holiness,

the authority, and the unity of the church of Christ, a testimony to

which not even an unbeliever, if present, could remain indifferent.

It took nearly two hours for that crowd to depart. The cardinals,

royalty, the nobles, and many of the bishops in carriages, made their

way, at a snail's pace, along the streets leading to the old Roman

Elian Bridge across the Tiber, now known as the Bridge of St. Angelo.

They could scarcely get on as fast as the foot passengers that filled

the street on either side up to the very wheels of the single line

of carriages allowed. Others, more in a hurry, went out by the Porta

Angelica, so as to cross the Tiber at the Ponte Molle, two miles

north of the city, and then reënter by the Porta del Popolo; and

others again turned southward, following the streets along the river,

and crossing it at the suspension bridge, or at some of the bridges

lower down. And so, within two hours, all reached their homes without

a single accident, without a single quarrel, without a single call

for the interference of the police.

But it was for many of them only to return within a few hours. On

Easter-Sunday evening occurs the grand illumination of the façade

and dome of St. Peter's. As the shades of evening fell on the city,

silvery lights began to mark the lofty cross, and to glow along

the huge ribs of the mighty dome, and to map out the lines of

the windows and doors, the columns, and cornices, and tympanums,

and architectural ornaments and projections, to illuminate the

clock-faces and the coats of arms above them, to sparkle along the

minor domes, and to stretch away on either side in regular lines

along each colonnade, diffusing everywhere a gentle light, and

bringing into prominence, with a fairy-like witchery, all the lines

of the pile before you. There are about five thousand two hundred

of these lights. They are made of broad shallow plates of metal or

earthenware, containing a certain amount of prepared tallow and

a lighted wick, and surrounded by a cylinder of paper, colored

and figured. From this lantern, as it may be called, the light

comes diffused, subdued, and white; hence the Romans call this the

_silver_ illumination. The square was filled, though by no means as

in the morning, with crowds looking, wondering, and admiring. At a

quarter past eight, the large bell of St. Peter's began to chime.

As the very first stroke came to our ears, a tiny blaze was seen to

dart up a guiding wire to the top of the lofty cross, and a clear

bright flame burst forth, glowed on the summit; downward the tiny

flame flew, lighting two others on each arm of the cross, and then

downward lighting still others along the stem. Invisible hands caused

other such little flames to flit rapidly hither and thither, like

glow-moths, all along the dome, the front, and both colonnades around

the square. Wherever they seemed to alight for an instant, there a

bright flame sprung into existence. In just twenty-three seconds,

and long before the clock had half struck the hour, eight hundred

of those bright yellow flames had almost eclipsed the first ones,

and the building stood forth in the _golden_ illumination. It was a

sight, once seen, never to be forgotten. Whoever first conceived the

idea of this instantaneous change of illumination was a poet in the

truest sense of the word.

On Easter-Monday evening, the festive celebrations were continued by

giving the _Girandola_, or exhibition of fireworks on Monte Pincio.

On entering Rome from the north, by the Porta del Popolo, as before

the days of the railways the great majority of travellers did, you

find yourself at once in a large oval square, called the Piazza del

Popolo, in the centre of which stands an ancient Egyptian obelisk,

its base surrounded by modern Egyptian lions and fountains. On the

south side, three streets radiate into the heart of the city. For a

wonder, they are straight; you may look down the central one, the

Corso, for full three quarters of a mile. Massive palatial buildings

stand around this square; to the west there rises a line of lofty

evergreen cypresses, near the Tiber. Through the interstices of their

branches and dark foliage you may catch glimpses of St. Peter's. On

the east rises the Pincian Hill, the _Mons Hortulanus_ of the olden

Romans, then outside and to the north of the city, now within its

walls, and forming its beautiful promenade. The hill is about one

hundred and fifty feet high, and toward the square is quite steep.

Broad carriage-ways, sweeping from right to left, in zigzag courses,

give access from the square to the promenade above; and immense walls

of masonry, with arches and porticos, and columns, rising in stories,

back of and above each other, prevent any landslides, and give an

architectural finish to the whole hill-face which the trees and

exotic plants growing in the spaces between only embellish and do not

mar.

For ten days before Easter-Monday, the public had been excluded

from the promenade. As they passed through the square, they could

see a lofty scaffolding in the process of erection on the brow of

the hill, and other scaffolding interlacing with the architecture

of its side. The opposite oval curve of the square was occupied by

a line of covered galleries of wood erected for the occasion. On

this Monday night, the air was balmy, the sky clear but moonless.

At least twenty-five thousand spectators stood in the square. The

Roman municipality had assigned the galleries to the bishops and

some thousands of other invited guests. Four military bands whiled

away the time of expectation with sweet music. At last the appointed

hour struck on a neighboring church clock, and a rocket shot up into

the air, the sound of its explosion was reëchoed from the mouth of

a cannon; and the pyrotechnic display at once commenced. The art of

pyrotechnics has been cultivated at Rome with more skill and good

taste than in any other city of Europe. We might, indeed, expect this

from a people trained as no other is to recognize and appreciate

the beautiful and fitting in form and color. The grand features

and characteristics of those displays were settled centuries ago.

They say that Michael Angelo himself did much toward perfecting

them. On each occasion some able artist gives the specialties to be

introduced, always in subservience to those general principles. This

year, the plan was given by the distinguished architect Vespiniani.

At one time, the entire face of the hill and the scaffolding was

ablaze with lines of variegated light, representing a vast mass of

buildings with towers and cupola, and gigantic gateways, on which

there streamed down from above continuous beams of still brighter

and purer light. In the distance stood the figure of an apostle,

and by him an angel with outstretched arm; and we understood that

we were looking at the celestial Jerusalem, revealed in vision to

the apostle in Patmos. We marked the gates of precious stones,

perfectly represented by the various hues of fire, and the foundation

stones bearing in letters of light the names of the apostles. Too

soon it seemed to fade away, but only to be renewed with change of

colors. For a while we might still study it. Again it faded, again

was renewed with still another exquisite arrangement of colors, and

then faded away into darkness. Then figure after figure burst out

afterward, without any delay or tedious waiting. At one time, a

gigantic volcano, amid the booming of cannon that caused the ground

to tremble beneath the foot, belched forth thousands of burning

rockets, which ascended in streaks of fire and burst over head,

seeming to fill the sky with myriads and myriads of many-colored

falling stars. At another, the whole hill-side stood before us as a

group of majestic triumphal arches, decorated with immense wreaths

of roses, lilies, dahlias, and bright-colored flowers. In a niche

was seen the bust of the pontiff surrounded by a brilliant frame,

and below we read the inscription, in which _Senatus Populusque

Romarins_, the municipal authorities of the city, offered to Pius

IX. their homage and congratulations on the near approach of the

twenty-fifth year of his pontificate. All the minor devices of

pyrotechnics, of course, abounded. When, after three quarters of

an hour, the brilliant and almost continuous display seemed to be

closed, a little fiery messenger started from the hill-side, on an

invisible wire, to the summit of the obelisk in the centre of the

square, and lighted a bright flame on its point. Soon lines of flame

decorated its sides. From its base ten little messengers started out,

not very far over the heads of the people, reaching as many pillars

around the square, and lighting up simultaneously ten bright Bengal

lights. It was as if day had come back to us. The lights on the

pillars changed from white to purple and red, and other messengers,

this time seemingly still nearer the heads, rushed madly back to

the central obelisk and clothed that too in many-colored fire. At

last, from obelisk and pillars alike shot up rocket after rocket,

bursting loudly in the air, and for the last time casting their

bright hues of white, and scarlet, and orange, and green, and purple

on the hill-side, the palaces and hotels around, and on the crowd

beneath in the square. All was over, and at an early hour the mighty

mass was slowly moving like living torrents down the three streets

leading from the square into the city. So great was the crowd that

it was full half an hour before the careful police would allow the

carriages, which filled the by-streets in the neighborhood, to enter

those thoroughfares. Gorgeous and artistic as the spectacle was, it

had not cost beyond a thousand dollars.

On Tuesday, the fathers were at work again. A general congregation

was held, as usual. The last speeches were spoken, the last

explanations were heard; the last touches were given to the _schema_,

and the last vote was taken, and every thing was ready to declare

and promulgate the _schema_, as a dogmatic constitution or decree of

faith, in the next public session, which, it was announced, would be

held on Low-Sunday.

The _Girandola_ on Monday night was the celebration of the municipal

authorities. On Wednesday night, the people had theirs--a general

illumination of the city. The proper day would have been April 12th,

the anniversary of the pope's return from Gaeta, and also of his

wondrous escape from all injury in an accident by the falling of

a floor at St. Agnes, outside the walls, something like the late

disastrous one in the capital at Richmond. Though many were injured,

cardinals, priests, and laymen, none, we believed, were killed.

But the chair in which the pontiff was seated came down with him

through the breaking floor without even being overturned, and he was

preserved from even the slightest shock. Since then, he ever keeps

that day religiously sacred, and the Romans have fallen into the

custom of celebrating it by a general illumination of the city. This

year, as the day fell in Holy-Week, the celebration was put off until

the 20th of April, Wednesday in Easter-Week.

Each householder illuminated his own building with lines of

_lampioni_, as they call the plates of earthenware or metal, filled

with tallow and a lighted wick, and surrounded by a cylindrical

screen of colored paper, through which the light shines as a huge

diamond. The wealthier ones affected some ornamental design in a

profuser arrangement of such lights. Some used multitudinous cups

of colored glass, holding oil, and a lighted taper swimming in it.

In each parish, the inhabitants clubbed together to erect one or

more special designs of superior artistic taste and brilliancy. The

city was all aglow; nobody save the sick staid at home; the streets

were filled with streams of people all moving in the same direction;

for some one had, with happy thoughtfulness, got up an itinerary or

route guide through the city, and all seemed to follow it. It took

three hours to walk through the choice parts of the fairy scene,

if you went on foot; and more, if you took a carriage. The lines of

mellow light, faintly shining from windows and cornices along all

the buildings, even the poorest, in the narrowest, and darkest, and

crookedest streets of Rome, broken occasionally by a brighter burst

from the doorway of some shop well illuminated in the interior; the

blaze that rose from the lights more numerous and brighter in the

squares, or shone from the fronts of wealthier and larger houses

and palaces, from the arches of triumph, and from the temples of

Gothic or classic style, constructed of wood and canvas, but to which

painting and colored lights lent for the hour a fairy beauty like

that of Aladdin's palace; every thing united to charm, to dazzle, and

to bewilder the spectator. The pope had gone that afternoon as usual

to St. Agnes, to be present at a Te Deum for his escape, and returned

only after night-fall. As he reached the square of St. Peter's, a

number of rockets shot up into the air, and burst into a thousand

stars of every hue. It was a signal. Instantaneously the colonnades

on either side and the front of the church were all lighted up with

Bengal fires. The columns in front and the walls glowed in a white or

golden light; the interior recesses were made mysterious in a rich

purple. After a few moments, the tints were interchanged; the bright

purple light was in front, and seemed to change the buff travertino

into alabaster and precious marbles, and the trembling tints of

white and light gold within imparted a supernatural beauty to the

interior recesses. Change followed change, until the pope, amid the

enthusiastic acclamations of the vast crowd, moved on, and at last

disappeared in the rear of St. Peter's, to reach the grand gateway

of the Vatican palace. The crowd too passed elsewhere, to wander

along streets converted into arcades, roofed by lines of soft and

many-colored lights; to admire the triumphal arches, where in niches

the Saviour stood as "the way, the truth, and the life," attended

by the Evangelists or the Blessed Virgin Mother, to whom David and

Isaiah bore testimony; to look on the cross of jewelled light shining

in the dark recesses of the front of the Pantheon, or to examine and

criticise the temples of light at the Minerva, the Santi Apostoli,

or Monticilorio; to rest themselves at times, listening to the music

of the bands, which ever and anon they encountered; to look with

delight on the illuminated steamers and barges on the river, bearing

(for the nonce) the flags of every Christian nation, and to study

the play of light reflected on the rippling surface of old Father

Tiber; to wonder at the obelisks converted into columns of fire, or

the grand stairway of Trinità di Monte, made a mountain of light, and

a glorious grand stairway seeming to reach the heavens, or to watch

the changing colors of Bengal fires, illuming the statues of old

Neptune and his tritons and sea-horses, and the wild cavernous rocks

and dashing waters of the exquisite fountain of Trevi; or, after all,

to stroll through some square, where yellow gravelly walks led you

between beds of green herbage, where tiny fountains were bubbling,

where trees were laden with fruits of light, and where flowers filled

the air with sweet perfumes. All Rome was in the streets, and in

their orderly, calm, and dignified way enjoyed the scene hugely. Not

a loud voice or an angry word was heard, not the slightest symptom of

intoxication was seen. Everywhere the hum of pleasant talk of friends

and family groups arose, made sparkling and brilliant to the ear,

rather than interrupted, by the low but hearty and silvery laughs of

men, of women, and of delighted children. The Romans were out, all

in their best apparel; and not they alone, but thousands from the

villages of the campagnas and the neighboring mountains, in their

bright colors and quaint mediæval traditional costumes. All these

were a study to the sixty thousand visitors then passing through

the streets of Rome, not less interesting and instructive than the

gorgeous illumination itself. Among those sixty thousand strangers

there was but one decision--that nowhere else in Europe could there

be an illumination so spontaneous, so general, so perfectly artistic,

so exquisitely beautiful and grand as this was, and nowhere else

could such a vast crowd walk these narrow streets for hours with such

perfect order, such good humor, and such universal courtesy.

There were other celebrations during these two weeks, both

ecclesiastical and social, but it will suffice to have spoken of the

chief ones. The repositories or sepulchres of Holy-Thursday evening,

the services of the three hours' agony in many churches about noon on

Good-Friday, and the sermons and way of the cross in the ruins of the

Colosseum, the scene of so many martyrdoms, on Good-Friday afternoon,

would all deserve special mention; but we have not the space, and

must pass on to the third public session of the Vatican Council.

This, as we have already stated, was fixed for Sunday, April

26th--Low-Sunday. At nine A.M., the cardinals, patriarchs, primates,

archbishops, bishops, mitred abbots, and superiors of religious

orders were in their places. The council hall had been restored

to the original form in which we had seen it on the day of the

opening. All the changes to fit it for the discussions of the general

congregations were removed. The Noble Guard and the Knights of Malta

were on duty as custodians of the assembly. Cardinal Bilio celebrated

a pontifical high-mass, as had been done in each of the previous

sessions. At its termination, the Gospel was enthroned on the altar.

The holy father intoned the "Veni Creator Spiritus," and the choir

and united assembly of prelates sung the strophes alternately to the

conclusion of that sublime hymn. The pontiff chanted the opening

prayers, and all knelt when the litany of the saints was intoned in

the varied and well-known antique melodies of Gregorian chant. At the

proper place, the pontiff chanted the special supplications for a

blessing on the council, and the chanters and the assembly, and, in

fact, thousands of the audience, joined in the swelling responses.

The effect seemed even to surpass that which we described in our

first article, giving an account of the opening of the council. Other

prayers followed, prescribed by the ritual. At their conclusion, the

special work of this session commenced.

According to the olden time ritual of councils, all in the hall, not

belonging strictly to the council, should at this point be sent away,

and the gates should be closed, that in their voting the fathers

might be free from all outside influence, and each might speak his

mind, unswayed by fear or favor. But if, in stormier times, when

clamorous mobs might invade a council hall, such precautions were

necessary, here, to-day, they are certainly unnecessary. There is

no need to close the wide portals against these thousands and tens

of thousands who have gathered to look with reverence and rapture

on this venerable assembly. Let the doors then stand open to their

widest extent, that all may see.

And it was a scene worth coming, as many had done, across oceans and

mountains to look on. The pillars and walls of the noble hall were

rich with appropriate paintings, with mosaics, and statuary, and

marbles. At the furthest end, on his elevated seat, sat the venerated

sovereign pontiff, bearing on his head a precious mitre, glittering

with jewels, and wearing a cope rich with massive golden embroidery.

On either hand sat the venerable cardinals, arrayed in white mitres,

and wearing their richest robes of office. In front of them sat the

patriarchs, mostly easterns, in the rich and bright-colored robes of

their respective rites, and wearing tiaras radiant with brilliants

and jewelry. Down either side of the hall ran the manifold lines of

primates, archbishops, bishops, and other prelates, all in white

mitres, and in copes of red lama; all save the oriental prelates, who

wear many-colored copes and vestments, and rich tiaras, ever catching

the eye of the spectator as they sat scattered here and there in that

crowd, and excepting also the heads of religious orders, who wear

each his appropriate dress of white, or of black, or of brown, or

mingle these colors together. The contrast and play of various colors

in all these vestments give a brilliancy to the whole scene, much

beyond what the uniform white of the first two sessions had yielded.

But what mattered the color of their vestments, when one considered

the venerable forms of the bishops themselves. They sat still, and

almost as motionless as so many marble statues. Now and then some

aged prelate, with bald head and snow-white locks, would lay aside

for a few moments the heavy mitre, that perhaps was pressing his aged

brows too heavily. All else seemed motionless. Their countenances,

composed and thoughtful, told how thoroughly they, at least, were

impressed with the importance and the solemnity of their work.

In the middle stood the altar, rich and simple, on which lay

enthroned the open book of the Gospels. Near by stood the light and

lofty pulpit of dark wood.

Into this pulpit now ascended Monsignor Valenziani, Bishop of

Fabriano and Matelica, one of the assistant secretaries, and in a

voice remarkable for its strength and distinctness, and not less so

for its endurance, read with most appropriate emphasis, and with

the musical intonations of a cultivated Italian voice, the entire

_Dogmatic Constitution_, from the beginning to the end. It occupied

just three quarters of an hour.

At the conclusion he asked, "Most eminent and most reverend

fathers, do you approve of the canons and decrees contained in this

constitution?"

He descended from the pulpit, and Monsignor Jacobini, another

assistant secretary took his place, to call for the votes of the

fathers, one by one.

"The Most Eminent Constantine Cardinal Patrizi, Bishop of Porto and

Santa Rufina!"

The venerable cardinal arose in his place. We heard his answer,

PLACET;--_I approve_. An usher standing near him repeated, _Placet_;

a second one on the right hand side repeated, _Placet_; a third on

the other side repeated aloud, _Placet_.

"The Most Eminent Aloysius Cardinal Amat, Bishop of Palestrina!" The

aged cardinal rose slowly, and in a feeble voice replied, PLACET. And

from the ushers again we heard echoing through the hall, _Placet!

Placet! Placet!_

Thus there could be no mistake as to the vote, and not only the

notaries but all who wished could keep a correct tally.

Cardinal after cardinal was thus called in order and voted; then the

patriarchs, each one of whom, rising, declared his vote, and the

ushers repeated it loudly. _Placet! Placet! Placet!_

Then on through the primates, the archbishops, and bishops, the

mitred abbots, and the heads of religious orders, admitted to

the right of suffrage. Where a vote was given, the three ushers

invariably repeated it. Sometimes when a name was called the answer

was given, ABEST--_he is absent_. In all, six hundred and sixty-seven

votes were cast, all of them in approval, not a single one in the

negative. Not a few of the bishops had obtained leave to go to their

dioceses for the Holy-Week and the Easter festivities, and had not

yet been able to return to the council. We knew of one who, after

two weeks of hard work at home, had travelled all Saturday night, on

the train, and had reached Rome only at nine A.M. Sunday morning. He

had at once said mass privately in the nearest convenient chapel,

and, without waiting for even the slightest refreshment, had hurried

to St. Peter's, that he might take his place among his brethren and

record his "_Placet_." The whole form of voting occupied about two

hours. It was, in truth, a solemn and most impressive scene. There

was a pause at the end, while the notaries counted up the votes, and

declared the result. This done, the pope spoke aloud, "_The canons

and decrees contained in this constitution, having been approved

by all the fathers, without a single dissentient, we, with the

approbation of this holy council, define them, as they have been

read, and by our apostolic authority we confirm them_." It was the

official sanction sealing their force and truth.

The pontiff paused for a moment, evidently struggling with the

emotions of his heart, and then continued in an impromptu address in

Latin, which we caught as follows:

"Most reverend brethren, you see how good and sweet it is to

walk together in agreement in the house of the Lord. Walk thus

ever; and as our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ on this day said

to his apostles, PEACE, I, his unworthy vicar, say unto you in

his name, PEACE. Peace, as you know, casteth but fear. Peace,

as you know, closes our ears to words of evil. May that peace

accompany you all the days of your life. May it console you and

give you strength in death. May it be to you everlasting joy in

heaven."

The bishops were moved, many of them to tears, by the dignity and the

paternal affection with which the simple words came from his heart.

He was himself deeply moved.

Other prayers were chanted. The pontifical blessing was given,

and the pope intoned the Te Deum. The choir, the bishops, and the

thousands of priests and laity in the church, who had looked on this

solemn act of the church just executed, joined in with their whole

heart and soul, and swelled the grand Ambrosian melody, making it

roll throughout the church, and calling echoes from every chapel and

arch, from nave and transept and dome. And with this concordant song

of gratitude to God, the third session of the Vatican Council was

appropriately closed.

The pontiff departed, accompanied by some of the cardinals, by the

senator and _conservatori_ of Rome, the masters-at-arms of the

council, and the attendants of his pontifical household. Soon the

cardinals and prelates moved slowly from the council hall into the

vast church, unrobed in a chapel set apart for the purpose, and

wended their way homeward, and the third public session of the

council was over.

We were able, in our last number, to present to our readers the

original text, in Latin, of the constitution promulgated in this

session, and also a correct translation of it in English. It will

be seen on examining the subjects treated of, and by the absolute

unanimity of the votes given, how far astray "our own correspondents"

were, both as to the matters under discussion in the council, and as

to the divisions which they imagined to exist among the fathers.

Since Low-Sunday, the general congregations have resumed their

sittings, and the committees on matters of faith and on matters

of discipline have been busily engaged. Matters from the latter

committee have already been rediscussed, and some preliminary votes

have been taken. It is understood that ere long the committee on

matters of faith will report back to the general congregation another

_schema_ on the church, in the course of which the question of the

infallibility of the pope, of which so much has been written and

said, will at last come formally before the council. Should this be

the case, we may be sure the whole subject will be examined with

the care and research which its importance requires, and which the

dignity and the learning of the fathers demand. The result will be

that decision to which the Holy Spirit of truth will guide them.

ROME, May 8, 1870.

NOTE.--We may add to this announcement of our correspondent, that the

discussion of the _schema_ on infallibility was begun on the 10th of

May, and is expected to be finished before the 29th of June.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

AN AMERICAN POLITICAL ECONOMY; INCLUDING STRICTURES ON THE

MANAGEMENT OF THE FINANCES SINCE 1861. With a chart showing the

fluctuations in the price of gold. By Francis Bowen, Professor

of Natural Religion, Moral Philosophy, and Civil Polity in

Harvard College. New York: Scribner & Co. 1870. 16mo, pp. 495.

We took up this book with an old prejudice against the author of

some thirty years standing, as well as with an inveterate dislike to

almost all works on political economy, which it has ever been our

misfortune to read; but we have been pleased and instructed by it.

Professor Bowen is not a philosopher; has not, properly speaking, a

scientific mind; but he has great practical good sense, and a wide,

and we should say a thorough, acquaintance with the facts of his

subject, and the ability to set them forth in a clear and strong

light. He is no system-monger, is wedded to no system of his own, and

aims to look at facts as they are. It is a great merit of his book

that it recognizes that each country should have its own political

economy growing out of and adapted to its peculiar wants and

circumstances. Free-trade or protection may be for the interest of

one country and not for another, and no universal rule as to either

can be laid down.

The author, a follower of John Locke in philosophy, is of course not

good at definitions, and his definition of wealth is rather clumsy,

but he contrives as he proceeds to tell us what it is. All wealth

is the product of labor, and a man is wealthy just in proportion

to his ability to purchase or command the labor of others. Hence

the absurdity of those theorists who demand an equal division of

property or an equality of wealth, as well as of the legislation that

seeks to ameliorate the condition of the poor by making them rich,

or furnishing them with facilities for becoming rich. If all were

wealthy, all would be poor; for then no one would sell his labor;

and if no one would sell his labor, no one could buy labor, and then

every man would be reduced to the necessity of doing every thing for

himself. All men have equal natural rights as men, and this is all

the equality that is practicable or desirable.

The reader will find the professor has treated the question of

banks with rare lucidity, as also that of paper money, and even

money itself. But the portion of his work that most interests us

is his strictures on the management of our national finances since

1861, and especially Mr. Secretary Chase's pet scheme of national

banks. According to his showing, it would exceed the wit of man to

invent and follow a more ruinous financial policy than that pursued

by the national administration since the inauguration of the late

Mr. Lincoln as President. He shows that the Northern States could

have met and actually did pay enough during the civil war to meet

all the expenses of the war without contracting a cent of debt, and

consequently the two or three thousand millions of dollars' debt

actually contracted was solely due to our national financiers. There

never was any need of resorting to any thing more than temporary

national loans if the government had had in the beginning the wisdom

or the courage, or indeed the confidence in the people, to adopt the

scale of taxation subsequently adopted. There never was any need of

compelling the banks to suspend specie payments, or for it to issue

legal-tender notes, but what was created by its own blunders. The

people could have paid as they went for the war, and been richer at

its close than at its beginning.

As if creating paper money for all purposes except customs dues,

demeritizing gold and silver, depreciating the currency, and

enormously inflating the prices of all commodities, was not enough,

it must needs create the national banks, and make them a free gift

of $300,000,000 of circulation, and that without the least relief to

the government, but to its great embarrassment, still more inflating

the currency, and running up gold to a premium of 285. Even since the

war it continues its blunders, and does all in its power to increase

the burdens of the people. It seems from the first to have proceeded

on the principle of securing the support of the people by enabling

individuals to amass huge fortunes at the public expense. Why, if it

must have national banks, need it make them banks of circulation?

Why not compel them to bank on its own legal tenders instead of

their own notes, and thus save to itself the profits on $300,000,000

of circulation? It would have run no risk it does not now run; for

the treasury is responsible for the redemption of the notes of

the national banks, and the security it holds from them would be

perfectly illusory in any monetary crisis. But we have no room to

proceed. We, however, recommend this part of the work to the serious

consideration of our national financiers. There are in political

economy deeper problems than Professor Bowen has grasped; but upon

the whole, he has given us the most sensible work on the subject that

we are acquainted with.

* * * * *

THE DAY SANCTIFIED. Being Meditations and Spiritual Readings

for daily use. London: Burns, Oates & Co. 1870. Pp. 318. For

sale by the Catholic Publication Society, 9 Warren Street, New

York.

This volume consists of a series of meditations drawn from the Holy

Scripture and modern spiritual writers. It is not, however, a book

containing meditations for the entire year, as one would be led to

imagine from its title. The number of meditations is only ninety. So

it is supposed--and the plan is a good one--that the subjects will be

selected according to each one's devotion. A word may very fitly be

said in praise of the composition of these spiritual readings. They

appear to be really addressed to the reader. Moreover, they contain

no foolish exaggerations. These two merits are not unfrequently

wanting in books of meditations. The present volume relates to the

duties and doctrines of our holy faith. Another series is promised,

which will contain suitable meditations for the ecclesiastical year,

and the feasts of the Blessed Virgin and the saints.

* * * * *

CÆSAR'S COMMENTARIES ON THE GALLIC WAR. With Notes, Dictionary,

and Map. By Albert Harkness, LL.D., Professor in Brown

University. New York: D. Appleton & Co.

This edition of Cæsar's _Commentaries_ is altogether the best we

remember to have seen. Besides the advantage of a copious and

accurate dictionary, the notes are ample without being extravagant.

There is an introductory sketch of the great Roman's life, which is

interesting, and the map of Gaul is excellent.

* * * * *

REFLECTIONS AND PRAYERS FOR HOLY COMMUNION. London: Burns,

Oates & Co. 1869. Pp. 498. New York: For sale by the Catholic

Publication Society, 9 Warren Street.

When Archbishop Manning says that "this volume is a valuable addition

to our books of devotion," it needs no further recommendation.

But, in addition to his opinion, it comes to us sanctioned by the

approbation of the Archbishop of Lyons, and the Bishops of Aix,

Nancy, and Redez. Still, we will not forbear to give it our mite

of praise. The book abounds in beautiful methods of learning to

love Jesus in his sacrament of love. Yet the meditations are not

merely beautiful, they are also very practical. In our reading,

we have never met so touching and so useful a thanksgiving, after

communion, as the exercise which, in this volume, is called "The Hem

of our Lord's Garment." If good use is made of the suggestions and

reflections in these pages, they will certainly accomplish their

author's intention of "gently drawing the soul entirely to our Lord."

* * * * *

A TREATISE ON THE CHRISTIAN DOCTRINE OF MARRIAGE. By Hugh Davey

Evans, LL.D. With a Biographical Sketch of the Author, etc. New

York: Hurd & Houghton. 1870.

Dr. Evans was a friend of ours in days long gone by, and we used

frequently to contribute articles to the magazine which he edited,

one of which, entitled "Dissent and Semi-Dissent," has been

incorrectly attributed to him by his biographer. We have always

cherished a sentiment of respect for the quaint and learned old

gentleman, whose portrait has been drawn in the brief biographical

sketch prefixed to this volume with singular fidelity and accuracy.

Dr. Evans was a regular old-fashioned High-Churchman, after the

model of Hooker and Wilson, and consequently imbued with many

soundly Catholic principles and sentiments, mixed up with many other

incongruous English and Protestant prejudices. In the work before

us, he has with masterly learning and ability defended the Christian

doctrine of marriage in a manner which is in the greater number of

essential respects sound and satisfactory. Unfortunately, having

only his own individual judgment as his tribunal of last resort

in defining Catholic doctrine, instead of councils and popes, he

has sanctioned one most fatal error, the lawfulness of divorces _a

vinculo_, and subsequent remarriage, in the case of adultery on

the part of the wife. We are glad to see that his editor dissents

from him in this respect, and has republished the admirable little

treatise of Bishop Andrews sustaining the opposite side of the

question. It is a wonder that any person can fail to see how utterly

worthless is any pretended church authority which leaves such an

essential matter as this open to dispute. We are glad to see works

circulated among Protestants which advocate any sound principles

on this subject, even though they are incomplete. They have much

more influence than the works of Catholic authors; they form a

"serviceable breakwater" to the inflowing tide of corruption, and

prepare the way for the eventual triumph of the Catholic doctrine and

law, which alone can save society from dissolution. The _Atlantic

Monthly_, which is the favorite magazine of a very large class of the

most highly cultivated minds in New England and in other portions of

the United States, has descended to the lowest level of the free-love

doctrine, and thus fixed on itself the seal of that condemnation

which it has been earning for a long time past, as the most dangerous

and corrupting of all our literary periodicals. We hope that it will

be banished hereafter from every Catholic family, and receive no more

commendatory notices from the Catholic press. We are glad to see the

strong and manly refutation of its immoral nonsense given by _The

Nation_, although its argument fails of the sanction which is alone

sufficient to compel assent, and efficiently control legislation

and public opinion in a matter where so severe a curb is placed on

passion and liberty to follow the individual will. We are happy

to welcome such sensible and valuable aid to the cause of social

morality as that given by _The Nation_, but we must disown entirely

another champion of monogamy, to wit, the Methodist preacher, Dr.

Newman, as more dangerous than an open antagonist. We see that this

conspicuous declaimer intends to maintain in a public discussion,

to be held in the Mormon temple, the irreligious and scandalous

thesis that the holy patriarchs of the old law who practised polygamy

were adulterers and sinners against the divine law. This is quite

consistent with Luther's immoral doctrine that men totally depraved

and steeped in deadly sin can be friends of God through a legal

fiction of imputed righteousness; but it is equally shocking to piety

and common sense, and as completely subversive of Christianity as

the superstitious imposture of Joe Smith. We predict an easy victory

of Brigham Young over Dr. Newman. Dr. Evans, as corrected by his

editor and Bishop Andrews, advocates the sound Christian doctrine of

marriage, and the circulation of his work must therefore have a most

beneficial influence.

* * * * *

CRIMINAL ABORTION; ITS EXTENT AND PREVENTION. Read before the

Philadelphia County Medical Society, February 9th, 1870, by the

retiring President, Andrew Nebinger, M.D. Published by order of

the Society. Philadelphia: Collins. 1870.

This exhaustive essay, read before the Philadelphia County Medical

Society, by its able president, Dr. Nebinger, will, we trust, have a

great influence toward remedying the present loose domestic morals of

our country. We suppose the _exposé_ here made had much weight with

the Pennsylvania Legislature, which has recently passed a bill making

it a penal offence for any one to advertise the vile nostrums which

are now exposed for sale in our drug-stores with such unblushing

effrontery.

Recent statistics, published by Dr. Storer and others, prove the

fearful prevalence of the crime of fœticide among the native

population; and the next census will no doubt show an absolute

decrease of that class in the New England States. We hope when thus

placed officially before the eyes of the Protestant clergy, they will

awaken to the necessity of at least informing their congregations of

the enormity of this sin; so that the plea of ignorance, now urged to

extenuate their guilt, can no longer be used.

Physiology has definitely settled that vitality begins from the

moment of conception. Theology pronounces the destruction of human

life to be murder, and consequently the Catholic Church impresses in

every possible way upon her children the fearful retribution that

will be visited upon those who in any way tamper with the helpless

unborn. We commend the paper to the careful perusal of our medical

readers.

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CONFERENCES OF THE REV. PERE LACORDAIRE. Delivered in the

Cathedral of Nôtre Dame, in Paris. Translated from the French

by Henry Langdon. New York: P. O'Shea, 27 Barclay street. 1870.

Mr. O'Shea deserves our thanks and those of the entire body of

educated Catholics in the United States for his republication of

this great work. F. Lacordaire was a genius, a great writer and a

great orator; one of those shining and burning minds that enlighten

and enkindle thousands of other minds during and after their earthly

course. In the graces of writing and eloquence, he far surpassed that

other popular preacher at Nôtre Dame who has proved to be but an

_ignis fatuus_. In originality of thought, intellectual gifts, and

sound learning, he was eminent among his compeers. Better than all,

he was a holy man, a true monk, an imitator of the severe penance of

the saints, and a devoted, obedient son of the Holy Roman Church.