of any cardinal who is not yet arrived; but every aperture is jealously
guarded by faithful janitors, judges and prelates of various tribunals,
who relieve one another. Every letter even is opened and read, that no
communications may be held with the outer world. The very street on
which the wing of the conclave looks is barricaded and guarded by a
picket at each end; and as, fortunately, there are no private residences
opposite, and all the buildings have access from the back, no
inconvenience is thereby created.
While conclave lasts, the administrative power rests in the hands of the
Cardinal Chamberlain, who strikes his own coins during its continuance;
and he is assisted by three cardinals, called the "Heads of Orders,"
because they represent the three orders in the sacred college, of
bishops, priests and deacons. The ambassadors of the great powers
receive fresh credentials to the conclave, and proceed in state, to
present them to this delegation, at the grille. An address, carefully
prepared, is delivered by the envoy, and receives a well-pondered reply
from the presiding cardinal.
Twice a day the cardinals meet in the chapel contained within the
palace, and there, on tickets so arranged that the voter's name can not
be seen, write the name of him for whom they give their suffrage. These
papers are examined in their presence, and if the number of votes given
to any one do not constitute the majority, they are burned, in such a
manner that the smoke, issuing through a flue, is visible to the crowd
usually assembled in the square outside.
Some day, instead of this usual signal to disperse, the sound of pick
and hammer is heard, and a small opening is seen in the wall which had
temporarily blocked up the great window over the palace gateway. At last
the masons of the conclave have opened a rude door, through which steps
out on the balcony the first Cardinal Deacon, and proclaims to the many,
or to the few, who may happen to be waiting, that they again possess a
sovereign and a Pontiff.
AN AUDIENCE WITH PIUS X[19]
BY MARY EMOGENE HAZELTINE
We arrived in Rome at three in the afternoon, with letters which ensured
us an audience with the Pope. A friend, long resident in Rome, who
advised us to present them at once, accompanied us to the Vatican.
Passing through an interesting part of the city, including the St.
Angelo Bridge across the Tiber, we soon found ourselves in the
world-famous Colonnade of St. Peter's. Ascending the steps leading to
the Vatican, we passed the Swiss Guard in their famous uniforms designed
by Michelangelo, and climbed what seemed like endless stairs, passing
guards at almost every turn, who pointed out the way indicated by the
address on our credentials.
Arriving at an anteroom, a priestly secretary, speaking excellent
English, read our letter with what seemed to us, from the expression of
his face, great interest and evident approval. Why should this not have
been? Our letter was from the Apostolic Delegate then in Washington--the
Pope's own representative in America. It was in Italian, in the highest
official form, and conveyed the intelligence that we were traveling in
Italy for a brief vacation, mentioned all four of us by name, and said
that, while we were not Catholics, we respected the faith and would
carefully observe all the forms prescribed for an audience. The
monseigneur whom we were to see was at that time engaged with several
bishops. Because of this, we were asked to present ourselves at the same
hour on Saturday, meanwhile leaving our letter.
Promptly at the hour I was again at the door of the major domo,
Monseigneur Bisleti, to be received again by the priestly secretary, by
whom I was taken into the palatial rooms of the monseigneur. A moment
here was sufficient to explain my errand and receive from the
monseigneur the long-coveted permission, which I found had already been
made out in due form for four persons. Our cards entitled us to
admission on the following day, which made necessary unexpected haste in
arranging for the official costume of black. Fortunately we had all
brought black veils and some of us either gowns or skirts. With help
from others, we secured one or two necessary waists, and from our
hostess obtained the rosaries I wished to have blest by the Pope. Our
hostess then gave us a dress rehearsal, in order that we might fully
understand what to us would be an imposing ceremony. An audience is a
great function and the procedure accordingly is rigid.
On reaching the Vatican next day, we were directed by the Swiss Guard,
not to the major domo's apartments as before, but through a court and
thence up the grandest of staircases in three long flights, the walls
lined with beautiful marbles more wonderful than many pictures, the
light coming through magnificent stained-glass windows. In every sense
here was a palatial, an imperial, entrance. At the head of the stairway
we were met by gorgeous chamberlains, the body servants of the Pope,
clad in superb magenta brocaded velvet, with knee breeches, magenta silk
stockings, and great silver buckles on their shoes. Streamers hanging
from their arms at the back, added to the official appearance of these
men in their gorgeous uniforms.
We were shown through a magnificent antechamber, and then into a series
of reception rooms, through which we were motioned on, until we came to
the fourth, where were just four chairs which seemed to be waiting for
us four. Swiss guards patrolled the rooms, and others--chamberlains, I
suppose. We had a full half hour in which to wait here, but we could use
it to advantage, in watching the gathering company, and viewing the
magnificent room, hung as it was with rich red moire silk, as were all
others of the suite. The ladies in black garb became very effective
figures in this brilliant setting. There were many beautiful tapestries
in the rooms, one room having a tapestried frieze. The furniture was
massive, either of inlaid wood or heavy gilt, and the floors of
beautiful inlaid marble. It is not possible to give any adequate idea of
these stately rooms, nor of their exquisite appointments; nor yet of the
gathering company, for many high officials of the church passed before
us and through to rooms beyond, which added to the interest of the
occasion and the splendor of the scene.
We learned soon that this was to be no ordinary audience, but a special
one granted to alumni of the American College in Rome. A few days before
we left New York, a large company of American priests, graduates of the
American College, had sailed on a chartered steamer to celebrate the
fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the college, from which they had
received holy orders. This audience had been specially arranged for
them. We were therefore more than favored in having an audience at the
same time, a fact due probably to the credentials with which we had come
provided. We now understood that the officials of the church who had
entered this room were our own American bishops. With them had however
come others of high rank. Over their priestly robes of black they wore
rich purple silk capes, falling to the floor, and purple sashes. (There
are, of course, technical terms for these garments, but I do not know
them.) The special body guard of the Pope, three men chosen from the
Palatine guard, and in soldier's uniform, now passed through the room
with a noble guard of the Knights of Malta and Count Moroni, also in
uniform, with chapeau, feathered with plumes of black and white.
At exactly half after eleven, Monseigneur Bisleti, watch in hand,
bustled through, followed by bishops and priests. We were at once on our
knees, for His Holiness was seen to be approaching from rooms beyond. As
he advanced we could see his small figure, clad in white, surrounded by
court attendants, American bishops, an archbishop, the Palatine guard,
Monseigneur Bisleti, and the Knight of Malta. Between us and the doorway
through which he approached, stood a girl of twelve, in white garments
and veil. She had come from her first communion. Near her was a
Franciscan monk, who evidently had just returned from some mission
field, for he was bronzed, and haggard, and worn as to his garments. As
the Pope passed he gave a special word of blessing to the monk, and a
smile to the child.
The ceremony of the audience itself was simple. The Pope walked past the
kneeling people, giving to each his hand. This each one took, kissing
his ring. Filling the center of the room, as we were kneeling around the
sides, were the priestly courtiers, the Papal delegate, in gray robes, a
prominent figure among them. The Pope passed on through several rooms
filled with waiting priests. We were then all bidden to follow to the
throne room, for a special ceremony. An audience generally ends when the
Pope leaves the room in which he receives you, giving his blessing to
all as he leaves.
In the throne room now the American alumni were to present their
addresses to the Pope. As we entered, undergraduates of the college were
discovered already there singing. Until the addresses were read, the
singing was continued. It was all a magnificent sight, the little white
father on his splendid throne, his court about him, his special body
servant holding his red cape (to be used in case of drafts), and, as a
background for all the colors of the court scene, several hundred
black-robed priests.
Monseigneur Kennedy, rector of the college, read an address, as did Rev.
Father Wall of Baltimore, president of the association. To these the
Pope replied, reading from a manuscript. After this, he rose, mingled
with his entourage, and chatted pleasantly with bishops and others. A
picture was then taken of the court, the priests and students. These
American priests and undergraduates were a fine company of men. The Pope
finally gave his blessing to all who were assembled in the room, and the
great function was over.
THE ASCENT OF THE DOME OF ST. PETER'S[20]
BY GEORGE STILLMAN HILLARD
The visitor to St. Peter's should not fail to ascend to the dome; a long
journey, but involving no danger and not a great amount of fatigue. From
the church to the roof the passage is by an inclined plane of pavement,
with so gradual an ascent that loaded mules pass up without difficulty.
In stepping out upon the roof, it is difficult to believe that we are
more than one hundred and fifty feet from the ground, or that so
extensive an architectural surface could have been reared in air by the
patient labor of men's hands. It rather seems as if a little village had
been lifted up by some geological convulsion. Here are wide spaces to
walk about in, houses for human habitation, a fountain playing, and all
the signs of life. The views are everywhere fine, and one can fancy that
the air is purer and the sky more blue than to those left below. The
dome soars high above the eye, and a new sense of its magnitude seizes
upon the mind. The two cupolas which flank the façade are upward of one
hundred feet high, and the five smaller ones which crown the chapels are
of great size; but here they seem like dwarfs clinging about a giant's
knee.
The dome of St. Peter's, as is well known, is double; and between the
outer and inner wall is a series of winding passages and staircases, by
which the ascent is made to the top. The length of these passages and
staircases, their number, and the time it takes to traverse them, are a
new revelation of the size of this stupendous structure. We begin to
comprehend the genius and courage which planned and executed a work so
novel and so bold. From the galleries inside, the view of the interior
below is most striking. It looks as the earth may look from a balloon.
The men moving upon the pavement appear like that "small infantry warred
on by cranes"; and even the baldacchino hardly swells beyond the
dimensions of a candelabrum.
At the base of the ball, a railing, unseen from below, enables the
visitor whose nerves are tolerably good to enjoy an extensive and
beautiful prospect, embracing a region interesting not merely to the eye
but to the mind: the cradle of that mighty Roman race which here began
its ever-widening circle of conquest and annexation. It comprises the
Campagna, the Tiber, the distant Mediterranean, the Apennines, the Alban
and Sabine hills, and the isolated bulk of Soracte. From no point on
earth can the eye rest upon so many spots on which the undying light of
human interest lingers.
From this place the ascent is made to the interior of the ball itself,
into which most travelers climb, probably more for the sake of saying
that they have been there than anything else. Tho the ball looks like a
mere point from below, it is nearly eight feet in diameter; and the
interior will hold a dozen persons without inconvenience. Altho I
visited it on a winter's day, the atmosphere was extremely hot and
uncomfortable, from the effect of the sun's rays upon the gilded bronze.
By means of an exterior ladder, it is possible to climb to the foot of
the cross; a feat which few landsmen would have the nerve to undertake.
SANTA MARIA MAGGIORE[21]
BY HIPPOLYTE ADOLPHE TAINE
We followed the street which ascends and descends, bordered with palaces
and old hedges of thorn, as far as Santa Maria Maggiore. This basilica,
standing upon a large eminence, surmounted with its domes, rises nobly
upward, at once simple and complete, and when you enter it, it affords
still greater pleasure. It belongs to the fifth century; on being
rebuilt at a later period, the general plan, its antique idea, was
preserved. An ample nave, with a horizontal roof, is sustained by two
rows of white Ionic columns. You are rejoiced to see so fine an effect
obtained by such simple means; you might almost imagine yourself in a
Greek temple.
It is said that a temple of Juno was robbed of these columns. Each of
them bare and polished, with no other ornament than the delicate curves
of its small capital, is of healthful and charming beauty. You
appreciate here the good sense, and all that is agreeable in genuine
natural construction, the file of trunks of trees which bear the beams,
resting flat and providing a long walk. All that has since been added is
barbarous, and first, the two chapels of Sixtus V. and Paul V., with
their paintings by Guido, Josepin, and Cigoli, and the sculptures of
Bernini, and the architecture of Fontana and Flaminio. These are
celebrated names, and money has been prodigally spent, but instead of
the slight means with which the ancients produced a great effect, the
moderns produce a petty effect with great means.
When the bewildered eye is satiated with the elaborate sweep of these
arches and domes, with the splendors of polychromatic marbles, with
friezes and pedestals of agate, with columns of oriental jasper, with
angels hanging by their feet, and with all these bas-reliefs of bronze
and gold, the visitor hastens to get away from it as he would to escape
from a confectioner's shop. It seems as if this grand, glittering box,
gilded and labored from pavement to lantern, caught up and tore at every
point of its finery the delicate web of poetic reverie; the slender
profile of the least of the columns impresses one far more than any of
this display of the art of upholsterers and parvenus. Similarly to this
the façade, loaded with balustrades, and round and angular pediments,
and statues roosting on its stones, is a "hôtel-de-ville" frontage.
The campanile, belonging to the fourteenth century, alone presents an
agreeable object; at that time it was one of the towers of the city, a
distinctive sign which marked it on the old plans so black and sharp,
and stamped it forever on the still corporeal imaginations of monks and
wayfarers. There are traces of every age in these old basilicas; you see
the diverse states of Christianity, at first enshrined in pagan forms,
and then traversing the Middle Ages and the Renaissance to muffle itself
up finally, and bedeck itself with modern finery. The Byzantine epoch
has left its imprint in the mosaics of the great nave and the apsis,
and in its bloodless and lifeless Christs and Virgins, so many staring
specters motionless on their gold backgrounds and red panels, the
fantoms of an extinct art and a vanished society.
CATACOMBS AND CRYPTS[22]
BY CHARLES DICKENS
There is an upper chamber in the Mamertine prison, over what is said to
have been--and very possibly may have been--the dungeon of St. Peter.
This chamber is now fitted up as an oratory, dedicated to that saint;
and it lives, as a distinct and separate place, in my recollection, too.
It is very small and low-roofed; and the dread and gloom of the
ponderous, obdurate old prison are on it, as if they had come up in a
dark mist through the floor. Hanging on the walls, among the clustered
votive offerings, are objects, at once strangely in keeping, and
strangely at variance, with the place--rusty daggers, knives, pistols,
clubs, divers instruments of violence and murder, brought here, fresh
from use, and hung up to propitiate offended Heaven; as if the blood
upon them would drain off in consecrated air, and have no voice to cry
with. It is all so silent and so close, and tomb-like; and the dungeons
below are so black and stealthy, and stagnant, and naked; that this
little dark spot becomes a dream within a dream; and in the vision of
great churches which come rolling past me like a sea, it is a small
wave by itself, that melts into no other wave, and does not flow on with
the rest.
It is an awful thing to think of the enormous caverns that are entered
from some Roman churches, and undermine the city. Many churches have
crypts and subterranean chapels of great size, which, in the ancient
time, were baths, and secret chambers of temples, and what not; but I do
not speak of them. Beneath the church of St. Giovanni and St. Paolo,
there are the jaws of a terrific range of caverns, hewn out of the rock,
and said to have another outlet underneath the Coliseum--tremendous
darknesses of vast extent, half-buried in the earth and unexplorable,
where the dull torches, flashed by the attendants, glimmer down long
ranges of distant vaults branching to the right and left, like streets
in a city of the dead; and show the cold damp stealing down the walls,
drip-drop, drip-drop, to join the pools of water that lie here and
there, and never saw, and never will see, one ray of sun. Some accounts
make these the prisons of the wild beasts destined for the amphitheater;
some, the prisons of the condemned gladiators; some, both. But the
legend most appalling to the fancy is, that in the upper range (for
there are two stories of these caves) the early Christians destined to
be eaten at the Coliseum shows, heard the wild beasts, hungry for them,
roaring down below; until, upon the night and solitude of their
captivity, there burst the sudden noon and life of the vast theater
crowded to the parapet, and of these, their dreaded neighbors, bounding
in!
Below the church of San Sebastiano, two miles beyond the gate of San
Sebastiano, on the Appian Way, is the entrance to the catacombs of
Rome--quarries in the old time, but afterward the hiding-places of the
Christians. These ghastly passages have been explored for twenty miles;
and form a chain of labyrinths, sixty miles in circumference.
A gaunt Franciscan friar, with a wild, bright eye, was our only guide,
down into this profound and dreadful place. The narrow ways and openings
hither and thither, coupled with the dead and heavy air, soon blotted
out, in all of us, any recollection of the track by which we had come;
and I could not help thinking: "Good Heaven, if, in a sudden fit of
madness he should dash the torches out, or if he should be seized with a
fit, what would become of us!" On we wandered, among martyrs' graves;
passing great subterranean vaulted roads, diverging in all directions,
and choked up with heaps of stones, that thieves and murderers may not
take refuge there, and form a population under Rome even worse than that
which lives between it and the sun. Graves, graves, graves; graves of
men, of women, of their little children, who ran crying to the
persecutors, "We are Christians! We are Christians!" that they might be
murdered with their parents; graves with the palm of martyrdom roughly
cut into their stone boundaries, and little niches, made to hold a
vessel of the martyrs' blood; graves of some who lived down here, for
years together, ministering to the rest, and preaching truth, and hope,
and comfort, from the rude altars, that bear witness to their fortitude
at this hour; more roomy graves, but far more terrible, where hundreds,
being surprized, were hemmed in and walled up; buried before death, and
killed by slow starvation.
Such are the spots and patches in my dream of churches, that remain
apart and keep their separate identity. I have a fainter recollection,
sometimes, of the relics; of the fragment of the pillar of the Temple
that was rent in twain; of the portion of the table that was spread for
the Last Supper; of the well at which the woman of Samaria gave water to
our Savior; of two columns from the house of Pontius Pilate; of the
stone to which the sacred hands were bound, when the scourging was
performed; of the grid-iron of Saint Lawrence, and the stone below it,
marked with the frying of his fat and blood; these set a shadowy mark on
some cathedrals, as an old story, or a fable might, and stop them for an
instant, as they flit before me. The rest is a vast wilderness of
consecrated buildings of all shapes and fancies, blending one with
another; of battered pillars of old Pagan temples, dug up from the
ground, and forced, like giant captives, to support the roofs of
Christian churches; of pictures, bad, and wonderful, and impious, and
ridiculous; of kneeling people, curling incense, tinkling bells, and
sometimes (but not often) of a swelling organ; of Madonne, with their
breasts stuck full of swords, arranged in a half-circle like a modern
fan; of actual skeletons of dead saints, hideously attired in gaudy
satins, silks, and velvets trimmed with gold; their withered crust of
skull adorned with precious jewels, or with chaplets of crusht flowers;
sometimes, of people gathered round the pulpit, and a monk within it
stretching out the crucifix, and preaching fiercely; the sun just
streaming down through some high window on the sail-cloth stretched
above him and across the church, to keep his high-pitched voice from
being lost among the echoes of the roof. Then my tired memory comes out
upon a flight of steps, where knots of people are asleep, or basking in
the light; and strolls away, among the rags and smells, and palaces, and
hovels, of an old Italian street.
THE CEMETERY OF THE CAPUCHINS[23]
BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
The cemetery is beneath the church, but entirely above ground, and
lighted by a row of iron-grated windows without glass. A corridor runs
along besides these windows, and gives access to three or four vaulted
recesses, or chapels, of considerable breadth and height, the floor of
which consists of the consecrated earth of Jerusalem. It is smoothed
decorously over the deceased brethren of the convent, and is kept quite
free from grass or weeds, such as would grow even in these gloomy
recesses, if pains were not bestowed to root them up. But, as the
cemetery is small, and it is a precious privilege to sleep in holy
ground, the brotherhood are immemorially accustomed, when one of their
number dies, to take the longest-buried skeleton out of the oldest
grave, and lay the new slumberer there instead. Thus, each of the good
friars, in his turn, enjoys the luxury of a consecrated bed, attended
with the slight drawback of being forced to get up long before daybreak,
as it were, and make room for another lodger.