THIRTEENTH STATION.


Trinita di Monte—Conversion—Audience of the Pope—A little about the Pope and St. Peter—The Grand-Duchess Helena—Four Cardinals—Conversation of a Nun—Lent Sermons—The Carmelite Monk—Père Marie Louis—The Drive to Frascati and Tivoli—The Holy Week—An Abjuration—Festival and Danger—Retraite i Sacré Coeur—Conversion-fight, in evil and in good—Still an abjurationRemoval to the Capitol—New Life—Little discoveries and experiences—The Catholic Church during the month of May—My Resume—Departure from Rome.

Rome, February 25th.—Adjoining the Piazza, di Spagna, stands, upon its lofty, wooded terrace, the stately church Trinita di Monte. Close to the church is a large conventual building, where the nuns of the order Sacré Cœur have an educational institute for girls. Grand equipages, with liveried servants, are often drawn up at its gate, showing that these young girls belong to noble or wealthy Italian or foreign families. In the evening, at il vespro, people go there to hear the nuns from the organ-gallery. It sounds like the singing of angels. One sees in the choir, troops of young pensionières, moving with slow and measured steps, with their long, white vails, like a flock of spirits. One day Mme. de M. took me with her to pay a visit to the convent. We were received by a tall, handsome nun, still young, with a gay, vivacious countenance, and a fluent tongue. She spoke French, and inquired if I were Catholic?

“No,” I replied.

“Not yet,” added my countrywoman, gently.

“Indeed! But you must be!” exclaimed the lively nun. “You must go into retraite, here, with us, and seriously think about it!”

I smiled, and shook my head.

We went through such parts of the convent as are open to strangers: its beautiful garden and church. The nun talked a great deal, and interested me by her vivacity and frankness. During the conversation it was mentioned that two young sisters, English girls, of the Protestant church, who had come some months since to the Pension of the convent for the perfecting of their education, as proud, staunch Protestants, had been converted to the Catholic church by means of Sister —— (the tall nun), and would, in a short time, make public their change of faith, although, at the earnest prayer of their parents, who were at a distance, they now received the instruction of the English Protestant preacher in Rome, who did every thing in his power to nullify the Catholic influence. Sister —— laughed about it. She was certain how it would terminate. We saw, in one of the parlors, a tall, dark man, dressed in black, and a pretty young girl, sitting together, engaged in earnest conversation. This was the Protestant teacher, and the young lady with the Catholic tendencies.

Mme. —— (the tall nun) frequently reverted to the question of ecclesiastical contention, for she evidently belonged to the church militant. I was thus compelled again to hear that I could not be regarded as belonging to the Christian church.

I said again, “I will ask the Pope! I am certain that he is more tolerant than you.”

Mme. ——'s last words to me were, “Come to us. Go into retraite here, and you will see that you will come to think differently on many subjects!”

“It will give me a real pleasure to talk with you on some subjects, if you will allow it,” I replied, “and as for my going into retraite, as you propose—I will think about it. But, as to my being converted;—you will not succeed.”

“So also, thought the young English girls!” said she, laughing.

We parted on the best terms. Mme. M. told me that Mme. —— was celebrated for her talent in converting Protestants. She had converted to the Catholic church more than sixty persons, partly in France, partly in Rome.

I had now so often said, “I will ask the Pope!” that I myself became rather curious as to what his answer would be, and I resolved to make my joke earnest. I had always regarded Pio Nono as an unusually liberal Catholic, and his amiable appearance, as well as the liberal sympathies which he avowed at the time of his ascending the Pontifical throne, had won my heart. For these, and other reasons, I was glad to have an opportunity of a nearer view of Pio Nono.

I preferred my request for an audience through our kind and ever-benevolent and polite Scandinavian Consul, Cavaliere Bravo; and two days afterwards, early in the morning, I received a command to go that same day to the Vatican. The printed letter by which this was communicated, contained also directions as to how I was to be dressed—namely, in black silk, with a vail.

At four o'clock, accordingly, last Sunday afternoon, I was in the saloons of the Vatican, to which I was introduced by a young page in a scarlet silk dress. In one large room, ornamented by two large pictures, several ladies and some gentlemen were seated, waiting for their summons, they also having requested audiences. The Pope on Sunday afternoons gives audience, especially to ladies, who are allowed however to be accompanied by their husbands or sons. We waited about an hour. I contemplated the two large pictures, which occupied two whole walls of the apartments. They were paintings of a middling quality, representing the revelation of L'Immaculate Virgine to Pio Nono, and of his solemn announcement of this dogma in the church of St. Peters.

The persons waiting in the room, were called in to the Pope in the order in which they had arrived. They went in by twos or threes at a time. I was summoned to enter alone, as I had come.

Before entering the Pope's room I had to wait yet a little while in a well-lighted corridor, where two Cardinals politely took charge of me. The oldest, still young—a handsome, fair, very tall gentleman, with quite a worldly appearance, under the ecclesiastic cloak and cap, (Monsignore di Merode), talked about my writings, with which I am sure that he was only acquainted from a critical notice of them, which has lately appeared in a French paper, the Constitutionel.

He supposed that I was “a Catholic?”

I replied in the negative.

“Oh! but you must become one. You must be converted; you must not stop half-way! A lady, such as you”—and so on.

He was interrupted by the summons to the Pope. I entered, attended by Monsignore di Merode, who knelt at the door, and then left me alone with “His Holiness.”

I saw at the further end of an oblong, light, and very simply furnished room, a man of a stout but handsome figure, standing at a writing-table, dressed in a long white garment, with scarlet lapels and cap. I made one low courtesy at the door, another in the middle of the room in obedience to the Pope's sign to me to advance, and yet a third as I approached him and took my stand on the same little carpet with him, which I did in accordance with his friendly indication of his will. (For such persons as do not kneel to the Pope, are required by the ceremonial to make three courtesies or bows.)

The portraits of the Pope are in general like him, but his full, short and broad countenance has, when seen more nearly, less expression of kindness, and considerable more of self-will and temper than the portraits exhibit. The glance of the blue eye is lively, but not profound, and is deficient in earnestness. The complexion and physique generally indicate the best of health, a good appetite—and a good cook.

The Pope cast his eye on a written paper which he held in his hand, and having inquired about my country and place of residence, added, “You have written somewhat?”

Myself.—Yes, your Holiness; novels of domestic life—more properly descriptions of life, but in the form of novels.

The Pope.—But you are a Catholic?

Myself.—No, your Holiness, not a Roman Catholic.

The Pope.—Then you must become one. There is no completeness or consequence out of the Catholic church.

Myself.—Permit me, your Holiness, to ask a question?

The Pope.—Yes, ask it.

Myself.—I love, with my whole heart our Lord and Master, Jesus Christ. I believe in His divinity; in His redeeming efficacy for me and the whole world; I will alone obey and serve Him. Will your Holiness not acknowledge me as a Christian?

The Pope.—For a Christian! Most certainly, But———

Myself.—And as a member of the church of Christ?

The Pope.—Ye—s, in a certain sense; but—but then people must acknowledge as true every thing which this church says and enjoins. You ought not in the mean time to believe that the Pope sends to Hell all who do not acknowledge the infallibility of the Catholic church. No, I believe that many persons of other creeds may be saved, by living according to the truth which they acknowledge. I believe so, most certainly.

Myself.—It delights me infinitely, to hear this from your Holiness. Because I have cherished the hope of finding in your Holiness, a more righteous judge, as regards these questions, than in many other Catholics, who say, “You are not a Christian; you cannot be saved, if you do not, in all respects believe as we and our church do.”

The Pope.—In this they are wrong. But you see, my daughter, people should be able to give an account of their Christian belief; not believe alone in generals, but believe in the separate parts of a doctrine. It is already something to believe in the second person of the Godhead, and in His incarnation; but it is necessary also to believe in the institution which He founded on earth, otherwise there can be in reality no faith in Him. And people must believe in the Pope. The Pope is Christ's representative on earth. In Sweden, people do not believe on Christ and His church. In Sweden, the extremest intolerance exists towards those who think differently to themselves. The king there has twice endeavored to introduce religious freedom, but they would not have it!

Myself.—I know it, your Holiness; but Sweden in former times has suffered from Catholics in the country, and old laws still remain unrepealed in consequence. But it will not long be so, I hope. My countrymen will learn to have confidence in the power of truth and of Christianity.

The Pope.—Your reigning queen is Catholic.

Myself.—Yes, your Holiness, and the noblest of women; an example to her sex, an ornament to the throne.

The Pope.—All Christian princes and people ought to believe on the Pope and obey him. Their not doing so arises from pure pride and a worldly mind. Hence state churches have arisen. The Emperor of Russia will not acknowledge the Pope, because he wishes to be Pope himself. Queen Victoria will not acknowledge the Pope, because she herself will be Popess, and so it is in every country where there is a State church. Belief in the Pope, as the head of the Christian church is the only rational and consequent thing, it is that alone which leads to unity and clearness. The church is an organization; a representative monarchy with its supreme head; a spiritual state. If in a state, people will not obey the supreme head, then there can be neither clearness nor order; every thing becomes confusion.

Myself.—We believe in Jesus Christ, and acknowledge Him alone, as head of the Christian church.

The Pope.—But Jesus Christ is in Heaven, and must have a representative on earth; and this He appointed, in the first instance, in the person of the Apostle Peter, by the words—you understand Latin?

Myself.—Poccissimo, your Holiness. I have begun to learn it lately.

The Pope.—Very good, then you will understand the words, “Tu es Petrus, et super hanc petram ædificabo ecclesiam meam, et portæ inferni non prævalebunt adversus eam. Et tibi dabo claves cœlorum.” This dignity and this power descended from Peter to every Pope who has succeeded him, from the very earliest period of the church, down to the unworthy individual who now stands before you. This is the belief and the doctrine of the church.

Myself.—We in our church, explain these words of our Saviour differently. "We consider that by Peter, He intended the Rock-man, and that the acknowledgement which Peter made, “Thou art Christ, the son of the living God!” was the rock upon which Christ would build His church, against which the gates of Hell should not prevail. We believe that Christ left the keys to all His apostles, as well as to Peter, with power to bind and release, and that every earnest Christian, whether it be the Pope in Rome, or a poor fisherman on our own coasts, has part in this church of the Rock and in its privileges.

The Pope.—But you have not either confession nor absolution; you do not believe in the mass, nor in the seven sacraments, nor upon those things or ordinances which the church of Christ appoints. He who believes the one must believe in all. There is but one God in heaven, and but one church on earth, in which he lives, by his representative, and by regulations which he has appointed. This you must understand, and, in order to become a perfect Christian, not do it by halves—make an open confession thereof.

Myself.—Loving the Lord Christ, and living according to his commandments, are, according to our belief, the essentials of the Christian!

The Pope.—Very good. I will tell you something. Pray!—pray for light from the Lord,—for grace to acknowledge the truth,—because this is the only means of attaining to it. Controversy will do no good. In controversy is pride and self-love. People, in controversy, make a parade of their knowledge,—of their acuteness,—and, after all, every one continues to hold his own views. Prayer alone gives light and strength for the acquirement of the truth and of grace. Pray every day, every night before you go to rest, and I hope that grace and light may be given to you; for God wishes that we should humble ourselves, and he gives his grace to the humble. And now, God bless and keep you, for time and eternity!

This pure, priestly, and fatherly admonition, was so beautifully and fervently expressed, that it went to my heart, and humbly, and with my heart, I kissed the hand paternally extended towards me. That it was the hand of the Pope, did not embarrass me in the slightest degree, for he was to me, really, at this moment, the representative of the Teacher, who, in life and doctrine, preached humility, not before men, but before God; and taught mankind to pray to him. The Pope's words were entirely true and evangelical. I thanked him from my entire heart, and departed more satisfied with him than with myself. I had stood before him in my Protestant pride; he had listened with patience, replied with kindness, and finally exhorted me, not with papal arrogance, but as a true gospel teacher. I parted from him with more humility of spirit than I had come.

The Pope conversed with me in French, with facility and accuracy. His manner of speaking is lively and natural, as one who allows himself to converse without restraint.

I was received in the outer apartment, or corridor,—a long room, with many windows,—by Monsignore Merode.

“You have had a long conversation with the Pope,” observed he.

Myself.—His Holiness has had the goodness to answer some of my questions.

Mons. de M.—You are remaining in Rome? You ought to be always here. You must be converted and become a Catholic; it cannot be otherwise. A person like you ought not to die a heretic.

Myself.—But I am not a heretic. I am a Catholic Christian.

Mons. de M.—But not a Roman Catholic!

Myself.—No; I consider myself more Catholic than if I were so. I acknowledge as a Christian every one who has part in the life of Christ, and I do not ask whether he be called Catholic or Protestant. I reverence, as the disciple of Christ, every one who becomes great in this discipleship,—St. Vincent de Paul, St. Theresa, Catherina of Sienna, the Pope himself, as well as the men and women who are the ornaments of the Protestant church. I see them all as members of the church universal, to which I also, through the grace of God, belong. You see then, Monsignore, that I am more Catholic than you!

To this tirade, which I spoke standing, or rather passing through the doorway, Monsignore di Merode did not seem exactly to know what he should reply; but he did not look quite satisfied, and said finally:

“I see, at least, that you are in the right way to become Catholic, and I hope that you will become more and more so, and actually so.

Myself.—I too, hope the same.

Mons. de M.—Aha!——Really?

Myself.—Yes; but we do not understand the thing in the same way. The Pope is less exclusive on this question than you other Catholics.

Mons. de M.—How!—We other Catholics! and in Sweden? How liberal are people there? There, in the first place, people are very exclusive, very intolerant.

Myself.—People would there be more liberal, Monsignore, if the Catholics were less exclusive.

Mons. de M.—I hope that Sweden will one day become exclusive in the Catholic sense.

“That I do not hope,” replied I, smiling, as I made a movement to take my leave.

“Can I be of service to you in any way?” inquired the polite Cardinal. “May I show you some pictures of Overbeck's on subjects for La Via Crucis?”

And the obliging Monsignore conducted me into one of the anterooms, where these paintings were. He was soon, however, summoned again to the Pope to conduct to the presence three ladies with a load of rosaries, crosses, and small pictures of saints which were to be blessed by the Pope.

I then went into St. Peter's Church, which was at this hour illumined in the most exquisite manner by the setting sun, the light of which streamed in through the fire-tinted windows of the chancel. I met the German Count Bruner, who agreed with me that this church is a pontifical rather than a Christian temple; because, throughout the whole place, that which is reflected there is the power and the glory of the Popedom and the Popes. The magnificent cupola itself resembles an immense papal tiara, arched above the tomb of St. Peter.

This cupola is the last great work of Michael Angelo, and is a beautiful monument, not alone of his genius, but also of his elevated character of mind. He undertook the direction of this work in his old age and at the earnest desire of Pope Leo X. He executed it under much opposition and amidst the enmity of envious artists, and under many kinds of difficulties and troubles, as is shown by his private letters. He wished by this cupola, as he says, “to place a Pantheon on the top of St. Peter's,” to make the greatest heathen temple of Rome (the Pantheon di Agrippa) an ornament for the Christian church; he wished by doing this, “to erect a temple, which should, at a great distance, announce to strangers and pilgrims that they approached Rome, the residence of the Christian religion!”

The Pope offered him one hundred ducats a month as director of this gigantic work, but Michael Angelo rejected the offered reward, and wished for nothing besides the testimony of his own heart, that he labored alone for the glory of the Highest.

Amongst the secular monuments of the side aisle is—to the right of the entrance-gate and not far from it—that of the Swedish Queen Christina, a monument of little beauty, for a remarkable but not beautiful character. On the top is a medallion-profile in bronze, and below a bas-relief in white marble, representing her abjuration of the faith of her great father and her conversion to the Catholic church.

At no great distance, on the same side, stands a monument of another female celebrity, a beautiful contrast to the last mentioned—the monument to the Countess Matilda, “the Great Matilda,” the daughterly friend of Gregory VII., who, by the gift of her hereditary lands, founded the temporal power of the States of the Church. The monument, by Bernini, represents her as a young woman, amiable and lovely as a goddess of youth, who embraces with one arm, protectingly, the papal tiara, and the papal keys, whilst with the other she raises a drawn sword. This monument, in all its parts, is of a cheerful, harmonious beauty, and the memory which it calls forth, belongs also to the most lovely and the most peculiar in the history of the world. For no one can think of this Matilda without, at the same time, thinking of Gregory VII., the head and hero of the popedom, the most arbitrary, the most inflexible, and, perhaps, in moral purity and will, the most elevated of all the Popes, after Gregory the Great. I confess that nothing is to me a stronger proof of his moral greatness, than the devoted attachment with which this man—unattractive in countenance, of an insignificant figure, was able to inspire a young and beautiful woman, richly endowed with the wealth of this world and the gifts of mind, the heiress of the most beautiful lands of Italy. For his sake she rejected all offers of marriage, for his sake she became a heroine, drew the sword, headed more than one battle, and gave the signal for the fight. She stood by his side, gentle and beseeching, when the papal severity went too far in the desire to bend and humiliate the refractory;—thus she prayed for the Emperor Henry IV., when Gregory compelled him to do penance, barefooted, and in his shirt, outside the church door, in the winter season;—by his side she stood consoling and strengthening, when Gregory was assailed by the spirit of vengeance, which his pure but inflexible severity had called forth. She sacrificed to his idea, that of the outward dominion and sovereignty of the church, the power and the lands which she had inherited and held with honor. The arbitrary ruler made herself voluntarily a servant to the ecclesiastical prince, and her whole life was devoted to the object which he placed before her.

It was not until after the death of Gregory, when Matilda seemed to lose her fine and elevated bearing, not until after her fatherly friend and ruler was removed, that she listened to a proposal of marriage, and although then forty, allowed herself to marry quite a young prince, who had sought her hand for the sake of her hereditary lands, which he supposed her to possess. I do not know whether there exists a good biography of this Matilda. Certain it is that she deserves such, to be commemorated as one of the most remarkable, and most interesting female characters of Italy.

Occupied by the contemplation of her monument, and of many splendid monuments of departed Popes, I lingered in St. Peter's until twilight came and extinguished the sunbeams, which slowly and as if with reluctance, withdrew from the church, beautiful portions and pictures of which they finally illumined with caressing and brilliant light. Darkness crept in, enveloping every object in this deeper, closer gloom—yet no—not all; for in proportion as it darkened, a circle of softly glimmering lights around the tomb of Peter and Paul, increased in brightness. A circle of silent supplicants bowed, as usual, on their knees around it. This circle, and above them, the gigantic rotunda of Michael Angelo, are the most beautiful monuments in St. Peter's Church.

I bore with me, from my conversation with the Pope, that he is naturally a man of liberal mind, who has become, as it were, incrusted and crystallized by the artificial institution and ceremonial life of the Popedom, so that his inner, original life has become quenched, and that he will continue in this form and will never more behold his former Christian identity, from the dread of coming into perpetual opposition to his present position and all his surroundings. He will believe on the divine institution of the Popedom, because he is Pope and because Roman Catholic Christianity will have a centre in the Pope and will maintain him upon his temporal throne, as such—for the present. He believes that it cannot be otherwise, and he will believe that it ought to, and that it must be so. He evidently sees no other unity and other rule, but the mechanical. Catholics in general do not see any other, and what is worse, neither do many Protestants. But these latter have a different centre of gravity. Well, well! Let it stand, this mechanical unity and order, until its spiritual life becomes strong enough to burst the imprisoning husk, and, like the tree of the world—a new Ygdrasil—grow lofty and beautiful, a tree of life for all people under God's free heaven!

“People ought to believe in the Pope!” I cannot forget these words. They were spoken with such decision; with such entire conviction by the Pope himself that they deserve to be more closely considered. And so they shall be by me, not as a Protestant, but as a Catholic Christian, and therefore I will yet once more “ask the Pope,” not Pio Nono, but a greater than he, even the greatest and noblest who has occupied the Pontifical chair, he whom Roman Catholic Christianity designates Gregory the Great; I will ask him whether “people ought to believe the Pope,” as the infallible legislator and judge in spiritual question, in questions about what “people ought to believe and to teach,” and I shall be introduced to him not by Monsignore de Merode, but by the erudite and truth-loving historian, August Neander.

Mighty, in a different way to what it is now, was the Roman cure of souls, at the time when Gregory the First—the Great—became its head. All the increasing communities of Christendom, in Asia, Africa, and Europe, were gathered under his care he watched over their pastors; he governed and ordered the temporal affairs of the common church; he appointed and displaced teachers in the south and in the east, and sent to the far northern Britain the Abbot Augustine (in the year 596), with various other pious men, to impart to its people the gracious gifts of the gospel.[1] All the teachers and members of Christianity looked up to him as to the supreme teacher and priest, as to the temporal head of the church. His views however of his dignity and rank, as the Roman bishop and father (Papa) were very unlike those which I heard expressed by his latest successor. But I will let Neander speak on this subject according to the documents which he—but not I—had studied:

“Gregory was animated by the conviction that, as the successor of the Apostle Peter, the care of the whole church, the Greek Church also included,—as well as its highest guidance—had devolved upon him. But, although he permitted to the Roman Church the dignity of supreme judge, over all the other churches, he was nevertheless far from wishing to disallow or infringe the independent dignity of the others. When the Patriarch Eulogius of Alexandria, in a letter to him, made use of expression, ‘as you commanded,’ Gregory desired him never again to employ such a phrase; ‘for,’ said he, ‘I know who I am, and who you are. You are my brother in dignity, but on account of your piety, I regard you as my father. I have not commanded you in any thing, I have endeavored only to show you that which appeared profitable to me.’ Eulogius had also called him, Papa Unversalis, a title of honor, which the Greeks, with their taste for a rhetorical and complimentary mode of speech, often allowed to their bishops. Gregory, however, felt this to be unseemly, and wrote to Eulogius, as well as to others, who also gave him the designation of universal bishop; Far from us be all terms which inflate pride and wound love!’ He strove earnestly that this name should be alone applied to the Saviour, as the invisible head of the general church, regarding it as inapplicable to any man. ‘And truly,’ adds he, ‘when Paul heard that some said, “I am of Paul, others of Apollos, and others again of Cephas,” he exclaimed with the greatest abhorrence of this sundering from Christ, “Was Paul crucified for you, or were you baptized in Paul's name?” If the Apostle could not thus bear that the members of the Lord's body should arrange themselves piecemeal under other heads, what canst thou, at the last day, reply to Christ—the head of the universal church—who hast endeavored to subordinate to thyself all the members of Christ. And truly, what is Peter, the first amongst the Apostles, other than a member of the holy, universal church? What are Paul, Andrew, and John, other than the heads of separate communities? And all, nevertheless, exist only as members under the one head.’ ”[2]

Thus wrote a great Roman Bishop, five centuries after the Apostle Peter, of the dignity which appertained to him and his successors in the chair of the Roman Bishops.

But even the rank of supreme pastor of the Christian community permitted by Gregory to Peter, and to his successors in the Roman chair, appears unfounded, when we read the history of the earliest church, in the Acts of the Apostles, and the Epistles of Peter. From these sources, it appears evident, that the Apostles did not ascribe to Peter any other dignity than was possessed by the rest; and, that Peter did not claim any such for himself. This is clearly shown the fifth chapter of the First Epistle of Peter. And if this Peter could now make his appearance on the earth, it would be most assuredly as a Protestant against his Roman representative. It is then clear that the first disciples and friends of Christ did not understand Christ's words to Peter as the Roman church explains them; and, that this explanation is founded in the circumstances which must not be looked for in the Word of God, and those writings which preserve it. By the light which history and its honest inquirers have thrown upon past ages, it is not difficult to discover these circumstances, and to understand how fruitless would be the noble combat of Gregory the Great, against the unrighteous elevation of the Popedom to a supernatural, all-dominant temporal power,—how this power increased and increased, partly from outer necessity, partly from inner worldliness—the power of the old serpent in the human heart—until five centuries after the first Gregory, a second of the same name, also great in disposition and will,—although, as it appears to me,—less pure, less free from selfishness than the first—could, with firm faith and will, regard himself as the representative of a domination, the greatest and the most absolute which ever ruled on earth. This domination is excellently described in the following words taken from a letter written by Gregory VII., and given by Johannes Voigt, whose history of the Pope, even Catholics highly esteem.[3]

“The church of God must be free from all earthly, human sway; the altar is only for him who eternally succeeds St. Peter; the sword of the ruler is below the church, its power is merely derived from it because it is a human thing; the altar, the chair of St. Peter, is only below God, and only from God. The church is now sinful because she is not free; because she is firmly fettered to the world, and to worldly men; her servants are not the right servants because they are appointed by worldly men, and are by this means what they are. Therefore, sinful desires and passions prevail in the persons consecrated to Christ, who are called overseers of the communities; therefore they strive alone after earthly things, because bound to the word; they require that which is earthly therefore contention and strife, pride, rapacity, envy exist amongst them with whom peace should abide; therefore the church is, through them, ill-governed,” &c. “Religion is a severe combat; the human heart is cold toward the divine word; here and there the faith is trodden down. For this reason the church must become free, and that through its head; through the foremost in Christianity, through the sun of faith, the Pope. The Pope sits in the place of God; he rules his kingdom on earth. Without the Pope there exists no realm; it crumbles away, it becomes a staggering vessel, and is shivered to pieces. As the affairs of the world are the business of the Emperor, so are the affairs of God the business of the Pope. Consequently the Pope must release the servants of the altar from the bond of the temporal power. One is the state, another is the church. As the saving faith is one, so is also the church one; so is the Pope, its one head; so are its members, its servants also all one. If now the church exists solely in herself, so must she also exist solely through herself. As nothing spiritual is visible and perceptible without the earthly, as the soul is not active without the body, so cannot religion exist without the church, nor the church without possessing a secure opulence. The soul is nourished through the earthly in the body; the church is maintained also, merely by means of land and wealth. And it is incumbent upon him who holds the supreme weapon, the Emperor, to be watchful that the church obtain this, and that it be preserved to her. Therefore the Emperor, and the great of the world, are necessary to the church; which only exists through the Pope, as he through God. If therefore the church and the world are to stand well, the priestly and the kingly power must be agreed, and both must strive after one purpose: the peace and unity of the world. The world is governed by two lights—by the sun, the greater, and by the moon, the lesser. Thus is the apostolic power like the sun; the kingly power like the moon. This latter also gives light only through the former; so with Emperors, Kings, and Princes, they are only through the Pope, because he is through God. Thus, the power of the Papal chair is far greater than the power of the throne, and Kings owe obedience and submission to Popes. According as the Pope is through God, and in the place of God, so is every thing placed under him; all matters, both temporal and spiritual, belong to his judgment-seat; he shall teach, exhort, punish, improve, condemn, and decide. The church is the divine judgment-seat, and renders account to God of the sins of mankind. She teaches the right way; she is the finger of God. The Pope is the governor under Christ, and over all. Therefore is his office a high, important, and arduous office; for it is written: ‘Thou art Peter, and upon this rock will I build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it; and I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatsoever thou shall bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatsoever thou shall loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.’ Thus spake Christ to Peter. But the Romish church exists through Peter, therefore the power of the keys is with her. The community of Christ is built upon Peter. This community embraces all who acknowledge his name, who call themselves Christians; thus are all isolated communities members of the community of Peter; that is to say, of the Roman church. Thus is she the mother of all Christian churches, and all churches are her subjects as daughters to their mother. She takes upon herself all their troubles; she may demand from them all reverence and obedience. She is the mother of all, and therefore has command over all her several members, amongst whom are emperors, kings, princes, archbishops, bishops, abbots. By virtue of her power over the keys she can appoint and remove them; she can give them power, not for transitory glory but for the well-being of many. They must therefore submissively obey. If they walk in the ways of sin, then will the holy mother convert them, and guide them into those which are right; if she do not so, then she sins through them. But he who builds up this mother, watches over her, follows and protects her, he obtains through her protection and benefit. The world now lies in wickedness; this age is the iron age; the church throughout the whole world suffers great tribulation. Renovation, and a better state of things, must proceed from the head of the church; she must proclaim warfare against, and annihilation of, all evil; all who have zeal for justice and virtue must stand by her; he who hates or oppresses the church is not a child of the church, but of the devil, and ought to be thrust out from her and cut off from all communion with mankind. Consequently, the church must be free, and all within her irreproachable and pure. The attainment to this is the Pope's chief endeavor. And so it must remain to be.”

That Gregory VII., himself, perfectly believed in the ideal of the papal power, which he thus described, is shown by his whole life, which was an incessant combat for the realization of this ideal; is proved by his steadfast conduct under the abuse and peril of life, to which he was more than once subjected in consequence; is proved, finally, by his last words on his death-bed, far from Rome, where he desired to have made the chair of St. Peter the centre of the world:

“I have loved righteousness, and hated ungodliness; therefore I die in exile!”

A bishop who was present, replied:

“My lord, thou canst not die in exile, because thou hast, in the place of Christ and the Apostles, made, by divine ordination, the people of the earth thine inheritance, and the whole world thy possession!”

But these beautiful words were spoken to a corpse. They were unheard by Gregory. He had already gone to hear the judgment of God.

The system by which Gregory VII. designed to purify and elevate the church, and into which entered, as one of the principal means, the disseverance of the priesthood from marriage and family-life, was carried out by his successors, and finally attained the triumphant establishment, which the strong will of Gregory, and the disordered state of the world, had prepared for it. Perhaps there might be no other means of bringing it, still in its minority, to order and unity,—at least in the outward. Perhaps that powerful ruling spirit was right in his view, and wrong only in so far as he sought, from that which was merely a temporal form, a mode of government fitted for a few centuries, a time of education and discipline for the new human race, to construct a normal condition, an eternal divine ordination. His portrait expresses a certain contraction of mind, as well as the steadfastness of an immovable will. It gives me the impression of a species of spiritual petrifaction. The powerful character of his own mind, and the weakness of the world, inspired him with faith in his papal infallibility, and in the destructive force of his excommunication. Certain it is, that under the alternating anathemas and blessings of himself and his successors, princes and peoples were seen by degrees to bow themselves, and the whole Christian world became obedient to the legislator on the chair of St. Peter. But when the pontifical crook was changed into a sceptre of the world, then it was broken. Popes worthy of detestation, such as Alexander VI.; worldly and vain Popes, such as Julius II. and Leo X.; but beyond every thing else, the want of tenacity in the system itself, and its natural decay in proportion to the increasing culture of the Christian world; the exhibition of a pure, religious life, amongst the men and the nations who were influenced by the reformation, and in times which were at hand, brought about that conflict of the world which overturned forever the system of Gregory, and the exclusive power of the Pope, at least in the sense that Gregory understood it. For although still the greater part of Christendom acknowledges itself as of the papal church, still how small is the power of that church, compared with what it was formerly, over either nations or the human mind! And this power decreases in outward authority, every day. And must it not be so, when she herself loses sight of the highest? Is it God in Christ which this church now proclaims? Is it not much more the Holy Virgin? The present Pope, Pio Nono, who considers himself to have received especial help, in a time of great need, from the intercession of the Virgin, has promulgated, in St. Peter's, the dogma of her perfect immaculation, consequently, divinity; and it is to her honor, and La Colonna, which has been erected in its glorification, that the successor of St. Peter this year commanded all tongues should give praise at the great annual festival of the Roman Propaganda! And yet Pio Nono insists that people must believe in the Pope—must regard him as the representative of Christ on earth, and infallible as our Lord! But the Holy Scriptures, and thoughtful Christianity, and sound reason!—no, it will not do!

I cannot deny myself the satisfaction of giving here an extract which struck me, from a book which I am now reading, namely: The Roman Pontifical Monuments.[4]

“There will come a time when the Pontifical monuments will have a significance like that of the busts and statues of the Roman emperors at the present time. There then will be no longer any Popes. Religion will then have assumed a new form, to us, as yet, unknown, and a human race, then differently classified, will, without doubt, contemplate this ancient Popedom as a much more magnificent creation than we who are now living conceive it to be. Is it not the most harmonious system which thus exhibits itself in an all-embracing form, in a democracy expanding itself through all the members of this unlimited political body, a severely regulated aristocracy, an absolutism without a legal successor, which again rests on a democratic basis. In the immeasurable spiritual sphere, which embraces heaven, earth, and hell, which divides and determines them with a policy, and at the same time a phantasy, of which merely to think makes the brain dizzy, the Pope has placed himself as the centre, he, for the most part, a weak old man. The lightnings of heaven are placed in a trembling hand. Of a truth, people will look back, after innumerable years, to these old men of St. Peter, as upon wonderful beings of antiquity. Some of their monuments, in particular those of metal, will still then be in existence, and people will stand before these old men, with their grave majesty as rulers, with the triple-crowned tiara, with their gloomy or mild, fanatical or benevolent, countenances, with their hands raised for blessing or for cursing, and will exclaim: ‘These were Popes—spiritual fathers—and chiefs of the world at that time! How antiquated and how dark the world must then have been!’

“She was so, and she was not so. From these old men, emanated old age and darkness, it is true, but also youth and light; and many of them had fresher hearts than many young but early-aged kings have had. But one cannot refrain from a feeling of wonder when one reflects, standing before these priestly forms in St. Peter's, what an amount of power the human race has for so many centuries unanimously conceded to them.

******

“They advanced out of darkness, not as kings, who were born to the purple; many of them were born in poverty and meanness; and yet hereditary emperors kissed their feet and called themselves vassals of their grace. They were yesterday unknown, and of no consideration, and already to-day they guide the reins of the world's history, and decide on the fate of nations. They ascended the throne of the world in the beggar's, or the hermit's cloak, and the world did not wonder at it. Neither races nor nations gave the deciding vote for their elevation; people scarcely knew whether they were Greek or Syrian, German or Spanish, Frenchmen, Englishmen, or Italian, because all nations obeyed them. And as they ascended the throne without having had a presentiment of their elevation, so they descended from it without knowing in whose hands the humor of the moment would place their staff. None of them knew, in the hour of death, who would be their successor, and yet their elective empire, the most accidental in the world, was immovable as the divine necessity.

“That which they spake became the law of the world. They were more terrible than Jehovah. They could lay upon a whole race, by a word, despair and the stillness of death, and spread the solitude of a churchyard over whole realms.

“They could proclaim war and peace; found and destroy kingdoms. They gave away lands and seas, which yet were not their own. A stroke of their pen on the map of the world became the boundary line of peoples and kings.

“They commanded the human mind to stand still, or allowed it merely as much action as they thought right. They measured it out very sparingly for science, still more sparingly for freedom, and prevented its too hasty diffusion by artificial impediments; by love and by fear.

“They were rulers even of the disposition of the world. Their power was founded on faith and on superstition. They ruled in the realm of mind by the magic wand of the imagination.

“They had power even over time. They cast out of the earthly as well as out of the heavenly paradise; they hurled the human soul into the abyss of hell and drew it again thence; they took hold upon the remotest future, as well as on the past, from which, like spirit-conjurers, they summoned human souls to obey their voice. For they had power both to loose and to bind.

“Their whole being was mythic, but nevertheless, their whole empire was as real as it was powerful, a form intermarrying heaven and earth.

“Their word declared human beings blessed, raised them amongst the saints of heaven and enabled them to perform miracles. They were the judges of the living and the dead.

“Whence came this enigmatical power into a weak and mortal human being,—this power which never before made its appearance in history, neither will ever again?

“There exists in humanity a deep and primeval, I might say, an elementary longing after unity. When we look attentively into history, we may hear this longing incessantly poured forth, may hear its harmonious and discordant music. This ideal unity of the human race is represented in the Roman Pope; it was the magic key of his power. He has appropriated to himself the organism of humanity, or of the community of the world, as the body and its members appropriate to themselves, the one actuating soul. And further still. The harmony of the general life which he condensed and ruled in the church, he has extended to the whole universe. He has bound up earth with heaven, so that this unity is continued in an immeasurable circle into eternity. He made himself the image of God on earth.”

I add; that this was his sin. It has been and continues to be punished according to the plan of the world's history. The artificial, social erection, the centre of which was the Pope, is now—a ruin;—he himself—a schoolmaster with a great number of disobedient scholars. But that which was eternally true in the dogmas he taught, in the unity he believed in, and by virtue of which the nations bowed before him, that still remains and will explain itself in a higher unity, a higher harmony in a gospel freedom and light.

And if another Gregory the Great should one day arise and sit upon the Episcopal throne of Rome, then he will, like the first of the name, renounce the worldly and false Popedom, reject the title of Papa Universalis; will not demand “faith in the Pope,” but will desire merely to be a servant of Christ, alike in dignity with every Episcopal pastor. And if he, like the first Gregory, avail himself of his elevation, merely to be a teacher and an unwearied laborer, an example to the community, then will the Christian people, and not alone the Roman Catholics, but all, reverence him, and voluntarily give him the surname of the Great, even if he should divest himself of the triple-crowned tiara, and perhaps even for that very cause. There is a grandeur, to which the whole Christian world more and more willingly pays homage, and that is of the spirit.

March the 18th.—The almond trees are in blossom, and the Campagna of Rome is becoming verdant; but the air is altogether cold, although its chilly, gray character has disappeared, and the sun now shines in full splendor. The tramontana blows violently, and the Sabine mountains are covered with snow.

“We have never had such a cold winter!” say the inhabitants of Rome; and I know that I myself have never had such a serious influenza. But this is now over; the sun shines, the spring advances, and I will give some little account of that which has occurred since I last wrote.

At that time, the influenza, like a wild beast, began to make serious ravages in Rome, and a number of deaths occurred in the higher circles. Amongst the deaths were those of four cardinals. These four announcements of sorrow were succeeded by four announcements of joy, the nominations of the four new cardinals, who had then to be congratulated and complimented without end, and that not merely by friends and acquaintance, but also by the whole world of Rome, which is done on a certain day of the week, when the new cardinals hold a grand reception for the whole world,. After this, they invite the whole world on another day of the same week, when they publicly receive the cardinal's hats, place them on their heads, receive honor and reverence from the princes of the church, and take precedence of all the royal princes in the world, besides having the prospect—though it may be distant—of the triple crown! But, nevertheless, they pay dearly for all this honor and glory, as it appears to cost more than twelve thousand scudi to become a cardinal. For this reason, they are frequently obliged to run into debt. But they easily borrow what they wish, because their annual income as cardinal is considerable.

After the influenza had ended its ravages in Rome, another malady seemed to seize upon every body. This was a perfect frenzy of visiting and invitations; and, although I excused myself from the greater number of invitations which were sent to me, because I could not do otherwise, yet even I, in the end, took this contagion, and gave a couple of small soirées for my Scandinavian and other friends, who had shown me kindness in Rome. I am now glad that they are over, and that they were so successful, because, next to making human beings happy, there is nothing more hazardous than the undertaking to amuse them. But agreeable and accomplished people, and music, considerably decrease the difficulty. Two skillful mandolin players, that I engaged for one of these evenings, and who came in their national costume, entertained me greatly. The soul and the overflowing life which they know how to put into the little quill with which they play upon the strings of the guitar, is something inconceivable.

I shall always retain a charming remembrance of two invitations which I felt obliged to accept. They were from the Grand-Duchess Helena, of Russia, who is, this winter, residing in Rome. She summoned me first to an audience, and, two days afterwards, invited me to a sorirée. I willingly obeyed, because I was glad to become better acquainted with this princess, whose character has always stood so high and pure, and who distinguished herself during the late war in the East, in a manner worthy of the Christian woman and the thoughtful princess, and who is alone influenced and guided by her own heart and her religious life. It was this princess who, by her own means, organized the association of the Sisters of Mercy, as well in the Greek Church as of the Protestant Evangelical faith, who performed such great service amongst the wounded and the sick in the Crimea, and who stood by them so heroically even in the storming of Sebastopol. I was glad to become acquainted with this lady.

On the first occasion, she received me alone. Her personal appearance and manners are of the class which immediately produce an agreeable impression. She is probably about fifty; her figure is nobly beautiful, and traces of great beauty, but of nervous suffering also, are discernable in the still youthful, delicate and trusting countenance. Her manners are lively; the expression of her countenance, sensible and full of soul. The interesting points in the conversation were her inquiries regarding my religious development, and the information which she gave in reply to my inquiries on the formation of the order of Russian Sisters of Mercy, just alluded to. She asked the Emperor Nicholas what he thought of her plan, and he answered,—

“I doubt whether it will be very successful—but you can try!”

The attempt succeeded beyond all expectation. The grand-duchess had merely to select from the members of the servants of Christ, belonging to every class of society, who came forward from the two different churches, to unite themselves under his name, and for his service. But the example which she wished to give them, and which she gave by her own service in the hospitals, and by binding up the wounded, together with the sight of these sufferings and so much misery, affected her nervous system to that degree that she has suffered from it to the present time. I could perceive also from many half-suppressed expressions, that the Grand-Duchess Helena had deeply experienced what suffering is in another way, namely, that of the soul.

It was extremely interesting to me to hear her speak of the great reform—the abolition of serfdom in Russia—which the present emperor, Alexander, has undertaken; and she enabled me more clearly to understand the means by which he, and they who are working with him, endeavor to accomplish this change of old established relationship, without political convulsion, or any injurious results, either to the owners of the serfs or to the serfs themselves. Of these latter there are not less than thirty millions. The emperor has demanded from the great landed proprietors, a statement of their several opinions and views regarding the accomplishment of this great work, and the grand-duchess, who is one of them, was now preparing her memorandum on the subject! Her remarks with reference to this important reform showed both a sense of equity and prudence. She wholly approved of the emperor's undertaking. She observed amongst other things, that although the condition of the serfs in Russia was a great deal better than people believed, yet still it was a state of injustice, which in itself was wrong. The laws did not permit a serf to make a complaint, nor yet to become a witness against his master. In this state of things, therefore, a great amount of injustice took place without being punished, or even made known. “In a Christian state,” she said, “the law ought to be alike for all!”

I cannot say what good it did me to hear the noble princess speak thus simply, and as if from the deep conviction of her soul. I saw in spirit the light of a new dawn ascending from the east, and enfranchised Russia becoming a liberator of its multitudinous and yet enslaved people. This proceeding of the autocrat of Russia appears to me to be one of the greatest and most gladdening occurrences of the present century, and the Czar who accomplishes it to be a far greater man than Alexander the Great. Alexander II., of Russia, deserves the beautiful name of Liberator, a far more beautiful, and at the same time a far happier surname than that of Conqueror!

I left the grand-duchess with the feeling of having seldom enjoyed a more interesting, or more satisfactory conversation.

The next time I saw her was at her soirée. She did not enter the room until the company had assembled, slightly nodded to the right and left, after which she went from one group to another, sometimes seating herself, and conversed with all. I could not but admire her skill in entering upon every kind of subject, and having something to say on them all. She never stops short in the superficial or the insignificant, nor does she ever lose herself in the profound, she immediately gives the subject under discussion a practical turn, or brings it within the range of human experience. She is evidently a woman of quick comprehension, great integrity of mind, and clear understanding. Her demeanor and mode of speaking are so easy and free, that they make others also feel perfectly at their ease.

I had an especial pleasure this evening from the conversation of two young Russian princesses, lively, agreeable, and also more well-read than I expected to find young Russian ladies. A young maid of honor, fair, handsome, and rigid as a wax figure, sat in grand attire, and made tea during the whole evening. The singer of the grand-duchess's chapel, a very handsome young German lady, with a splendid voice, sang various pieces. At half-past eleven the grand-duchess saluted the company with a short nod, and disappeared, after which one and all departed to their various homes.

I have had great enjoyment at two grand musical soirées, and also from the meeting with various persons of different nations,—Rome is a rendezvous for all,—have seen much beauty, and many elegant toilets. But oh! if the young ladies, and still more the elder ones, did but know how unbecoming it is to expose their bare shoulders as they now do, and what disagreeable remarks gentlemen make about them!——

Rank, wealth, beauty, talent, or learning, seem to be all equally good letters of introduction to the grand saloons of Rome.

On Sunday, the 14th, I was present at the dedication of a nun in the Convent of St. Philippo, near Santa Maria Maggiore. Jenny, who was somewhat fatigued after the party of the preceding evening, declined going out so early in the morning, and thus I set off alone. It was a fresh, cool morning, but the sun shone gloriously, and I enjoyed the walk in the pleasant morning air, and thought with compassion of the young girl who was now about to dissever herself from all pleasures of this kind. Meeting, on my way, with the Baroness E. and her daughter, who were also going to witness the same ceremony, I was invited to join them.

The whole street, as we approached the convent, was strewn with sprigs of myrtle, and men of the Pope's body-guard were stationed at the convent gates. We entered the refectory, a spacious, light room, the large windows of which admitted the sunshine, and afforded a view into the garden, where golden fruit shone upon the trees. Two groups of ladies were seated here; taking their coffee-breakfast. A very pretty, young girl, with a fresh, life-enjoying exterior, and the loveliest teeth, dressed in white silk, with a lace vail and splendid jewels, went from one of these groups to to the other, embracing and being embraced—it was for the last time, for she is “the bride of Christ,” and will this day be consecrated to the Holy One, and not embrace an earthly being more. She wishes to appear gay and contented, but there is a feverish, nervous vivacity in her manners. The elder nuns, in their white caps and neckerchiefs, which are very becoming, and also with white tunics over their black dresses, trip affably backwards and forwards through the room, making their various arrangements. They are all pale, but still their countenances are bright, and the expression good and peaceful.

We proceed to the little convent church, where the candles are now being lighted, and the Cardinal who is to celebrate the consecration is performing the toilet before the altar. He is an old man, with a long, pale countenance, and handsome features, but as if cut out of stone. The church fills by degrees, and the crowd becomes great in front of the altar. Presently, a procession is seen slowly advancing through the dense mass of people, toward the chancel, headed by two of the papal guard, who clear the way. Now come two young girls, in white silk dresses, with lace vails and jewels—she whom I saw in the refectory, and her sister, somewhat younger, I was told, but paler and more serious. They are followed by their godmothers and protectresses, elegant ladies, in splendid dresses. The two young girls having reached the chancel, fall down on their knees before the Cardinal, who says something in a low voice, first to the one, and then to the other. After this, each one receives a candle in her hand, when they rise, and again kneel down at the side of the choir, and so continue the whole time whilst the Cardinal makes an address to them, reading it, however, from a paper, which appears to me to be stereotyped, as well in matter as in manner. “The young sisters must resign the world, its temptations and dangers, become brides of Christ, live in constant communion with Him on earth, in order one day, when this life is over, to enter the eternal joys of paradise.” The sisters both look pale, but exhibit little emotion. They resemble two doves, which know little about their own fate, but are contented with it. Outside the choir, stands their father, with an expression of sympathy without much feeling, whilst their mother is bathed in tears.

The two young girls again advance, and kneel before the Cardinal, who cuts with a large pair of scissors several locks of hair from the tops of their heads. Two elderly nuns, one of whom has a slight mustache, and looks particularly masculine, complete the clipping off of the front hair, whilst the remainder, twisted up behind, is left untouched; nor is it cut off until the novice assumes the black vail; the initiation now taking place being that of the white vail, or first degree.

After this, the elderly nuns begin to disrobe the two novices, who kneeling before the Cardinal with their backs to the public, behaved quite passively. This disrobing, during which the white necks and throats of the young girls, their lovely plaits of hair, and beautiful forms became visible, had in it something strange and a little revolting; it might have been supposed that they were about to make their toilette for the night. Deep silence prevailed through, the church. I cast a glance at the priests who served at the ceremony. They watched the white doves with outstretched necks and greedy eyes, not with an evil and cynical expression, but smiling and inquisitive, as if they were amused by the scene. When the disrobing of all the finery was completed, the young girls bowed themselves to the ground, and the choir began to sing;

“Veni Spiritus Creator!”

During the singing, which might have been better, the sisters remained lying prostrate. Above the altar was a picture which expressed the presence of the Spirit better than the singing. It was a portrait of San Filippo de Neri, the founder of the convent, and one of the latest men of Italy whose piety was of the grand character. He is represented in the transport of prayer, and with an expression as if the peace and blessedness of heaven were already his. A picture of rare simplicity, and inward feeling, but by what master, I know not.

When the singing was concluded, the young girls rose from the ground, and the attiring now commenced. The new dresses, which were laid in order on the altar, were brought to the Cardinal on two trays, who then took them piece by piece, and gave to the two, who still knelt; whilst in so doing, he said a few words as to what they indicated. After this, the elderly nuns attired the young girls, covered their heads with little white night-caps, and put on them white jackets, and so on. Finally the Cardinal placed over their heads a large, white, stiff cloth, which, like a pyramid, enveloped the upper part of the body, and above that, he placed a large crown of silver filigree and red roses. The choir again sang a hymn to the Holy Ghost, the two young girls rose and went slowly out through a side door in the chancel, the Cardinal following them. After a little while, they again entered; again they knelt in the chancel before the Cardinal, who spoke to them thus:

“Thou, who in the world art called Carlotta, shalt henceforth, nella religione, be named Maria Nazarena di San Luigi!”

“And thou, who in the world art named Marietta, shalt henceforth, nella religione, be called Maria Anna di Gesu!”

After which, the Cardinal having spoken the blessing, the ceremony was at an end, and the assembly dispersed. The newly-dedicated young girls, their friends, the Cardinal, and the elder nuns, might now be seen walking about the convent-cloisters and halls confidentially, and in family-fashion, engaged in cheerful conversation. The mother of the girls, however, pressed them to her breast, weeping violently. She seemed quite overcome with grief, and appeared, indeed, to be the only one, who experienced nothing but sorrow from this scene. And I, for that reason, blessed her maternal heart. A young nun, habited in black, hastened with joy-beaming countenance to the Cardinal, and kissed his hand.

“See,” said the old prelate, jokingly, “how angry she is, because I made her a nun, (Monaca)!”

We went into the refectory. The nuns invited us kindly to stay and take some refreshments; this consisted of extremely good ices and wafers, and every one who came in hither from the church, was entertained in the same way. Each person was also presented with a copy of printed verses, dedicated to the two sisters. They were compared to two roses, now transplanted into a garden, where, sheltered from the storms of the world, they would be cultivated for the pleasure-courts of paradise. The verses were beautiful, and may probably contain truth. The two young girls belonged to a family of the citizen-class where the circumstances were not affluent, and the daughters many. Their friends and relatives had contributed sufficient means for the kind of dowry which is required when young girls are received into the convent and are there provided for during life.[5] I was glad to hear that the nuns of the order of St. Filippo, occupied themselves with the education of children; and, that these two young sisters had devoted themselves to the same. The convent has a school. The nuns are permitted to receive visits from their relations, and are also allowed to go out—once a year! Consequently, the rules are not very strict.

The parents of the young girls are said to be glad to have two of their daughters so well provided for. And however much I may have heard and read against conventual life, yet I have received from this place a very different impression. The bright and kindly expression of the nuns; the well-lighted rooms, the garden which was so fresh and verdant with golden fruit shining on the trees—I thought that life here might not be unpleasant, and I have seen this earthly life so difficult in many ways for poor girls, especially for those who are not richly endowed by nature; so much humiliation in the world, so many straits at home, so much anxiety for the morrow, so much discomfort—sometimes even want—in old age, that I cannot regard it otherwise than as good fortune to be safely housed in such a position, even if one must pay for it with a portion of one's liberty. But there are ceonvents of another kind. The mild establishment of San Fillippo de Neri, is differently constituted to the soul-destroying, unnatural life of Le vive Sepolte, and others of the same class, which prevails in many of the Italian convents. In this institution the motherly part of the woman's being is called into operation and is developed by the education of children; here the family-bond is not altogether broken. The rules are not rigid; the work is good, daily, moderate; the social life pleasant. The young girl is safe from the necessities of life; she may live usefully for the world, whilst she calmly cultivates her soul for heaven, and she may, by its mercy, attain to that heavenly peace and joy, which the beautiful picture above the altar represents! This, however, is indispensable to those with whom it succeeds; they must have a vocation for this quiet life, with its appointed times and seasons for work, meal-times, hours of prayers, hours of rest! It would not suit every one!

I have seen in San Pilippo de Neri the bright side of the conventual institution. But I know that there is another, one which causes the child to be torn from its parents in order to enrich the convent, which blinds the human being to the natural ordinance of God, blinds to his kingdom, in order to bind her to the church of stone by ceremonies and dead forms, and which tears her from family life, in order to make her the servant of the hierarchy and its despots;—against this side of the conventual institution I would read the Litany.——“Prove all things, and hold fast that which is good,” says the apostle.

March 16th.—I visited, in company with Madame de Martino, the private Chapel of Saint Brigitta and the rooms adjoining, which she inhabited during her residence of twenty years in Rome, and which remain still, as they were then. The three little rooms evidenced a mind which was weaned from the splendors of this world. The little chapel had been repaired and beautified. Both it and the whole house belong to the order of Salvator Brothers, an order which occupies itself with the education of youth. A friendly abbé, who conducted us round the place, spoke much of the good influence which Brigitta, as well by her conversation as by her example, had upon the higher order of the priesthood in Rome and Naples, which at that time had sunk into immorality and all kinds of disorder. When her eldest son, Karl Brahe, beloved by the immoral Queen Johanna of Naples, was on his way to become her husband, the holy Brigitta prayed night and day that this marriage might not take place; and as the young man died before the marriage, the abbé considered it as a proof that her prayers were heard.

In the afternoon, I went with Jenny, to the Church of San Luigi di Francesi—where during the whole of Lent, sermons are preached in French for the French military in Rome—to hear a Carmelite monk, who now is the rage. The Monk, Père Marie Louis, has one of those beautiful heads, which are given in paintings to the ancient ascetics and saints. A wreath of scanty locks surrounds the head; the countenance, with its delicate, regular features, tells of much fasting and prayer; the expression is perfectly spiritual, mild, and peaceful. His discourse was full of life, the delivery and voice clear as crystal, salutary to the mind as pure coloring or melody. The proofs which he adduced for the divinity of Jesus Christ were not new, but the fervor with which he spoke, the increasing earnestness towards the end of his discourse, and its concluding exclamation—it was riveting, incomparable! Père Marie Louis, is either a holy man—or a great artist! I saw two Protestants quite transported by his discourse!

After the sermon he explained the conditions which were absolutely necessary for the obtaining of Indulgence plèniere during the jubilee now ordained by the Pope. They were these,—general confession; a visit once a week to the three churches, San Giovanni di Lateran, St. Peter, and, if I am not mistaken, Santa Sabina, as well as the praying on each of these occasions, five Pater Nosters and three Ave Marias. The third condition was, fasting and almsgiving; on which the Carmelite monk remarked in a delicate, French style to the soldiers, “You fast, I fancy, every day the year round! (General applause, and smiles from the military in the church.) And it would be too hard to impose upon you any more outward fast; but, consider, could you not, after all, deny yourselves one little superfluity?—for instance—the little half cup of coffee after dinner? I am certain that you can, and that you will do this, and give, instead, a sou (a bajocco) each day to the poor!”

He said this with all the grace and delicacy of a man of the world, at the same time, with both earnestness and playfulness. The glances of the soldiers hung upon his lips. Deep silence prevailed through the church as long as he was speaking. Afterwards there was singing by the military, and such singing as I have never hitherto heard in the Italian churches.

When we returned home, bonfires were blazing in the streets, surrounded by noisy boys and a great many houses were illuminated, but in a feeble manner, that is to say, with a couple of small lamps in each window. This was in honor of the four Cardinals, who gave a grand reception this evening to—all the world. Very well satisfied to have escaped such a throng, I sat at our comfortable tea-table with my young friend, and closed the evening with the reading of Mrs. Browning's Aurora Leigh, a cardinal book for the energetic, poetical life of the language and feeling.

We have to-day made an excursion to the newly-discovered church of St. Alexander and its catacombs, seven miles out of Rome on the old Nomenta road. Commendatore Visconti, Baron Raimund, and various other learned antiquarians, were of the party.

We crossed the Anio, a lively little river, which falls into the Tiber, and saluted on its banks, the hill Sacco, where the plebeian population of Rome assembled for the first time, to the number of two thousand, and protested against the exclusive power of the Patricians, and also demanded a voice in the government of the state. Now the contest is about spiritual rights and liberties. And the contest must be still continued until—the great peace; but it has increased and still increases in significance.

The ruins of the church of St. Alexander lie deeply buried in the earth, but they exhibit a remarkably beautiful and careful style of architecture. The altar, the broken columns, the walls, and the exquisitely laid mosaic floors, with roses of purple-tinted porphyry—symbols of the blood of the martyrs, stand forth as from a grave. The catacombs contained some interesting fragments of inscriptions; amongst others the following:

“Sylvia! thou who livest in peace, pray for Sylvanello and Alessandro!”

In the funereal chapels, the marks may still be seen of the lamps, and also of the small cups which held the blood of the martyrs.

Interments are still continued round the church. Commendatore Visconti showed, in his comments upon these ruins, the new and beautiful views unfolded by the Christian comprehension of man and life, in comparison with those of the heathen world. I always listen to such comparisons willingly, though on the present occasion I felt the want of various concessions which impartial truth demanded. Christianity needs no stilts of injustice to raise her above the stand-point of heathenism.

The long, calm journey across the Campagna—that desert in which Rome lies like a gigantic monument—was to me the greatest pleasure of this excursion. You see on all sides, along the immense, waving grass-covered plain, lying between Rome and the mountain barrier-line of the horizon, nothing but herds of cattle grazing, ruins and tombs, aqueducts, some solitary ruined towers, and here and there, a little farm. The wind travels over the plain, which no tree, nor rock, nor town diversifies. All this produced a deep impression, particularly when you remember that this plain, which is now covered with grass, is a burial-place for human generations, and their magnificent works through many ages.

In a few places, the earth had been turned over by the plow, and the young vigorous seed, was growing strong and succulent, waving before the wind, and giving clear evidence of how affluent was the soil of the Campagna. I have been told that, if the Campagna were brought into full cultivation, it would make Rome and the whole of the Papal states wealthy.

“But we want hands for this purpose,” asserted a young monsignor to-day, “I do not believe that the earth would yield much!”

Rome is in want of hands for the cultivation of the earth, and the production of the people's bread, because she employs so many to attend to the churches and their ceremonies. There are probably five thousand priests and monks, and as many deacons or servants, who are occupied in the service of the churches and the daily ceremonies. In this manner ten thousand pairs of hands are employed, of which certainly one-half, at least, might labor to more profitable results. Man cannot live by bread alone, but neither can he live alone by prayer; and, least of all, by official mediatorial prayer. It exhibits most clearly the multitude of miserable wretches and beggars which exist in ecclesiastical and priestly Italy. “Pray and work!” was given as a rule for holy living by an ancient Father of the church. But the Romans do not love the work of peace, and scorn at this day to till the earth.

We had, at home in the evening, the company of a young Englishman, who has resided in Rome for ten years. Although he loves the eternal city, as his second fatherland, and is by creed a Catholic, he is, nevertheless, a friend to liberty of conscience, and the free exercise of religion, whilst he sees very clearly the inutility of a church-government in temporal affairs; in a word, of an ecclesiastical state like the Pontifical, and he believes that it is impossible for it long to maintain itself. He is an amiable young man, thoughtful and well-educated.

April 1st.—I will now, with a rapid pen, describe two excursions as cheerful as birds in spring. On the first, we flew by railway—the only one in the Papal states—for two hours across the Campagna to Frascati, and from there walked through oak-woods to Grotto Ferrati, where it was the annual fair. Great crowds of people, mostly from the country, were buying and selling, but doing all quietly and calmly. The Italian does not get drunk at his merry-makings, neither is he noisy, nor yet does he behave himself in an unmannerly way. The Graces stood sponsors to him at his birth, and have given him education. You may pass safely and quietly through the densest throng of people. At the same time that we saw kindly and comfortable men and women, we saw Albana, Castel Gandolfo, the summer residence of the Pope, saw every where beautiful trees, views and scenes fresh with spring. We closed the day at the good public house La Posta, amidst cheerful conversation with the country-people.

The day following, March 26th, we set off early in the most glorious morning, to the tombs of the Horatii and Curatii—the ancient monument of Rome's earliest tragedy. There they still stood, those grass-grown stone pillars, just as they appeared in the picture which I had when a little girl, and which called forth, in my childish fancy, ardent dreams of great deeds and noble sorrows. How beautiful was this morning! How full of a vital strength, with its sharp lights and deep shadows, passing over the living and the dead, its vernally fresh, life-giving air—its old memories, and its present state!——Lord of life and death, how rich are thy treasures!

We went to Aricia, which beautifully-situated town, with its environs, is the property of the princely family Braschi,[6] and thence to Lake Nemi. During the whole way, you have a view of the sea, which, on the right, bounds the horizon. We dined on the shores of Lake Nemi. The dark blue, and deep-lying lake, calm as a mirror, with its crater-like, fertile banks, in the foreground, and beyond it the green, far-stretching Campagna, with the monumental city of the world, and again beyond that, the light blue sea shimmering in the loveliest sunshine,—it was a sight and scene never to be forgotten! The sky was cloudless, and so was the enjoyment of the whole day.

Very early the following morning, we drove back to Rome, by the old Appian Way. The larks sung their resurrection-song above the vast graveyard, the Campagna, which shone green in the morning dew of spring, whilst great shadows of wandering clouds sped slowly across it, and over the surrounding mountains,—the Sabine, the Alban, and Monte Cavi, with the Convent of the Passion on its summit. Upon the horizon before us, rose the lofty solitary hill, Soracto.

We drove between tombs and marble statues, to the fountain of Egeria. How delicious was the coolness of shade, and of the clear water in the grotto! The walls of rock, and the niches which they contained, formed by the hand of man, showed that the home of Egeria was regarded in ancient times as a holy temple. That home could then have been scarcely so picturesque as now, in its ruinous beauty. Nature had clothed the stones with a mass of water-plants, with lovely Italian lycopodiums, which trembled to the bright, ever-falling tears, of the gentle nymph of the fountain. A very handsome, but stout nymph, of flesh and blood, in the elegant costume of Albano, was busied here, washing and rinsing clothes at the fountain.

At a short distance, on a hill, is a grove of dark-green iron-oaks, called the Grove of Egeria, and declared to be a fragment of the large sacred grove which anciently also inclosed the fountain, and where the wise Numa asserted that he received inspiration from the nymph for the formation of those laws which afterwards made the Romans a strong and well-organized people, capable of prudent legislation for many peoples.

In the beautiful grove, apparently the growth of ancient tree-roots, neither stone memorials nor monuments, are to be met with—nothing but the evergreen trees, and the soft soughing of the wind through their branches;—one fancies that in it one can perceive the whispering of a spirit!

Tradition relates that after the death of Numa, a deputation of senators went out to the sacred grove to discover the divine Virgin who gave the king of Rome the inspiration of those mild and wise laws which made its people happy, but that they only discovered a fountain, to which sorrow for Numa's death had changed Egeria. From amidst the cool shadows of the grove, one looks forth, on every side, over the sun-bathed Campagna, with its ruins of temple and tower.

Fountain and grove are both wonderfully charming places in the neighborhood of the old city of the world, and I must, if possible, visit them again!

Three days later, we drove to Tivoli, in the same good company. The morning was rainy, and we were, at first, doubtful whether we should go, or whether we should not. The decision was made on the courageous side of the question, and heaven rewarded the courage. The further we drove, the brighter it became. The larks began to sing in joyful chorus, and we also rejoiced. Amongst the small pleasures of life, there is scarcely any greater, than that of seeing the weather change from threatening to good humor; when one has an excursion of pleasure in hand.

We drove first to Hadrian's Villa, a work of vanity on a grand scale, which the mighty Roman emperor—in outward measure one of the most fortunate of the emperors of Rome—caused to be erected in memory of the temples, academies, and other remarkable objects, which he had seen during his journeys into the various lands under the rule of his sceptre. The magnificent Villa now stands like a desolated city of ruinous walls, and, in part, tolerably well-preserved buildings, which testify of its extraordinary grandeur. The treasures of this place—at least those which could be removed—have long since been conveyed to the museums of Rome, Paris, London, Munich, and other cities. Amidst this city of memories and splendid buildings, the imperial architect had a throne raised for himself in a semi-circular temple, commanding a view of Rome.

But more striking to me than all these magnificent erections, was the faith in the duration and security of human life, which must have been possessed by these great ones of the earth, who would be worshiped as gods, and who built for themselves thrones and temples!

But they y-vanish, y-vanish anon,
And their memories vanish when they are gone!”[7]

We came to Tivoli. The sun shone brightly between flying clouds, and lit up the cascades, which, white-foaming and rushing, were hurled down the lofty rocks, where the temples of Vesta and Sibylla, stand in solitary beauty. All around whispered the deep and beautiful woods. I cannot express how delightful and happy was the whole of this day, spent in rambling through this exquisite region, and in cordial society.

So much has been written about Tivoli, its cascades, villas, and temples, that I will make my description short.

It is the river Anio, which comes dancing in wild, youthful joy from the Sabine hills, where it has its source, down the rocks at Tivoli—a portion of which rocks consist of immense petrified tree-trunks—and forms within the extent of about two miles, a number of the prettiest falls, which have been called, according to their size, Cascata, Cascatelli, Cascatellini. They leap foaming and singing down into a valley, where the Anio becomes tranquil, and makes for itself a convenient bed, whence to betake itself into the Tiber. The road follows the windings of the valley, and you have, during the whole ramble, the view of the cascades from the hill on the other side, between the ruined temples and fragments of houses, old and gray as the rocks upon which they stand. But the slopes of the hills are verdant from the silvery dew of the cascades, and almond and peach trees shine out with their white and pale pink crowns, like an elegant, lovely embroidery upon a green ground, through the whole extent of the valley, along which flows the Anio, calm and clear as a mirror, between the rushing cascades, and amongst blossoming orchards, out into the Campagna, on the extreme distance of which rises the dome of St. Peters, solitary and lofty, as if to say, with Michael Angelo, “Here lies Rome!”

We went leisurely, we seated ourselves upon the moss-covered stones under the trees; eyes, and ears, and all our senses occupied by the indescribable beauty and life of the scene; we lingered long; I could have lingered there forever! We were compelled, however, to turn back, but not before we had seen the last of the splendid cascatellini fling itself down from the ruins of the Villa of Mæcenas, and higher up had seen also that of Catullus.

We dined at the Hotel à la Sibylle. We recommend this Sibyl to all travelers who wish to have a good dinner at a reasonable price, and advise them, as we did, to season their dinner with foaming orvieto, which is, according to our opinion, superior to champagne, and a genuine aqua vitæ.

The table was spread for our coffee by the temples of Vesta, and the Sibyl, which lay close together on the edge of the rock. Below them flow the Falls, with their white foam. The temple of Vesta still retains its beautiful circle of fluted columns, in excellent preservation. One can still see a portion of the cells and the place for the altar, on which the sacred fire was kept burning. The Corinthian columns of the temple of the Sibyl are now included in the wall of a little Christian church, which is devoid of beauty. It would have been better to have allowed them to stand or fall in the rock beneath the lofty heaven from which the Sibyl derived her inspiration. The temple of Vesta, and the sacred fire, which must be kept ever-burning there, guarded by sacred hands, in order that the life of the state might continue happy and full of glory—is an idea which is not lost to our time, though it may not be fully accepted. That of the Sibyl is less understood. The Sibyls of antiquity have become dark, half mythical figures, spite of all which a Father of the church, Lactantius, tells us about them. But tradition and art present them, nevertheless, as ancient evidences of woman's capacity for an immediate inner contemplation of the highest truths, and of her courage in expressing them. The Sibylline books are burned, but the declaration of the Sibyls, “God is one” and their prophecy of the judgment of the world, still sound to us, down the long vista of dark, idolatrous antiquity, as pure revelations, and their noble forms are immortalized by deathless art.

A more beautiful, or more worthy place of abode than here, upon this rock, could not possibly be assigned to the Vestals and the Sibyls, and this air, this life—you lament, my R——, that you are not able to enjoy them, that you are not able to live upon this glorious summit, with the whispering of woods, and the rushing of foaming waters around you, caressed by the sun? Be comforted. “All is not gold that glitters,” and this proverb comes to mind even here. The air is not always, is not often, so good here, nor the summit so sunny and calm. The air of Tivoli has but an indifferent reputation, and rain and storm are there of very general occurrence. A Roman proverb says:

Tivoli di mal conforto
O piove, o tira vento, o suona a morto.”

And I will tell you something. On the morning when we drove to Tivoli, we met a cart in which were seated two men of savage appearance, and with their hands bound behind them. They were robbers, regularly savage, murderous robbers, who had for a long time ravaged and plundered in the hilly country, and now, at length, were taken and carried in fetters to Rome, accompanied by two gens-d'armes on horseback. And look, do you see yonder, at the foot of the Alban Mount, the tall round hill covered with a thick cluster of houses? That is Rocca di Papa, the Pope's Rock, a regular nest of robbers; and strangers, it is said, can only venture at the risk of their lives, amongst its ruffianly population of two thousand souls.

They do not however remain always confined to the rock, but are scattered about over the country, seeking for their prey.

We found our coffee in the temple of the Sibyl remarkably good, the scene around incomparably lovely, especially in the golden glory of the evening sun-light,—but it might be less agreeable to remain here for any length of time in the neighborhood of Rocca di Papa.

The full moon rose like a golden shield above the Campagna, as, in the tranquillity of evening, we drove back to Rome.

April 5th.—The Holy Week, which amongst people of the Reformed church, is called “the still week,” which is entirely devoted to the spiritual celebration of a great and holy memory, is, in Catholic Rome, the most troublesome and restless week of the whole year. People have no time for religious worship, from the ceaseless succession of religious festivals and ceremonies. The number and the crowding of foreigners at these festivals, contributes also very greatly to convert them into mere spectacles, as wearisome to the body as they are little edifying to the soul.

The church festivals begin towards the close of Lent, with the blessing of the Golden Rose. This precious symbol[8] of the spiritual life of the church—the rose of Sharon and the lily, it is called—which, together with a sword and hat, are annually blessed by the Pope, on the fourth Sunday in Lent, and given occasionally by him, to some prince or princess, who has rendered service to the Pontifical throne. In the year 1849 it was given to the Queen of Naples; since then, it has, I believe, been presented to the French Empress Eugenie. On any year when it happens not to be disposed of, it is put by for the next occasion.

After this comes Palm Sunday, when the Pope blesses the palms; then the three solemn masses, with Miserere, called Tenebræ, in the Sistine chapel. Thursday, mass in St. Peter's, and the Pope's benediction of the people from the balcony of the church, after which comes the Lavanda; then La Cena, and again the Miserere. The Friday is not a holiday in Rome, as with us. The shops are open; the people go about their business as on other ordinary week-days; there are nevertheless, solemn masses in the churches, the exhibition of relics, various symbolic ceremonies, and the most solemn Miserere of all, in the Sistine chapel, during the singing of which, the light is extinguished, so that there is a prevailing twilight, in commemoration of the darkness during the crucifixion on Golgotha.

Saturday is, comparatively, a day of rest. The fire is blessed in the churches, and various illuminations, symbolic of the light which Christ brought into the world. This ceremony is especially splendid in St. Peter's. In the evening, the chapel of St. Paul, in the Vatican, blazes, with thousands of candles, a really magnificient illustration of the symbolic meaning just mentioned.

During the whole week, there is a great ascending of La Scala Santa on the knees; priests distribute absolution and blessing.[9] The churches and the officiating priests are clothed in mourning, dark violet, until Easter. Easter Sunday and the day following, are distinguished in Rome by a worldly pomp and splendor which are any thing but edifying. Yet these days, after all, are not without moments which are so.

Although I and my young friend were present at all these festivals, we received the full impression merely of two, partly because we saw the others imperfectly or not at all, or because they were of that kind from which no impression can be received. The festival of Palm Sunday in St. Peter's, when the Pope is carried out and in, as on Christmas-day, in great state, surrounded by his peacock's feathers, (which seems to me symbolical in its own way,) was infinitely wearisome from its length and uniformity.

La Lavanda, the feet-washing, for instance, in the transept of St. Peter's, I was not fortunate enough to see properly, on account of the great throng in the gallery; and from my dislike to crush in amongst the ladies, who, on this occasion, were half wild and like furies. Such of my countrymen, as witnessed this ceremony, were delighted by the manner in which the Pope performed it, and by his humble, mild expression. The fact of the coarse fishermen, the apostles of Christ, being changed into twelve young priests clothed in white, with very carefully washen feet; of the basin which the Saviour used for the washing, being now transformed into a silver-gilt bowl, which a kneeling priest holds for the use of his Holiness, as well as of the washing, wiping, and kissing of the disciples' feet being as easy and unsubstantial as possible, belongs to the character of this spectacle, which is rather a parody than a picture of its antetype in Jerusalem. The same also was La Cena. Kneeling priests present to the Pope meat, upon a silver dish, which he places upon a table before the guests—who have already satisfied their hunger, but who have permission to take away what they are not able to eat. The countenance of the Pope, during the whole of this ceremony, and his good-humored, kind expression, were admired by all. The Pope's benediction of the people from the balcony of St. Peter's, a scene which I witnessed perfectly, was not without imposing solemnity. But as this ceremony is repeated with greater pomp on Easter Sunday, I shall defer speaking of it till that occasion.

That which I shall never forget, that which I shall always remember as a perception, however fleeting, of heavenly mysteries, too profound and beautiful to be fully comprehended by the earthly mind, or to be retained by a soul attached to the earth, is the Miserere of Thursday, in the Sistine Chapel. I was told that it was by Allegre.[10] What tones, what tones! Such music as that I never heard before, but it is true that I have felt love and suffering, the desire of self-sacrifice and the joy of self-sacrifice, which resembled these penetrating tones! The darkening of the church during the music, added in no small degree to the impression on my mind, which lay entirely in the power of the tones, in those spiritual depths which they revealed. It would not be possible to linger long upon them and live.

The throng and the fatigue, subdued, however, the feelings. No sooner was the mass over, than they were hurled out of the kingdom of heaven, and transformed into a corps de garde, by the rude behavior of the Swiss guard to the auditors, in their officious zeal to make room for Queen Maria Christina, who, panting and short of breath, and now looking very ugly, staggered down the stairs.

Later in the day, we saw the splendid illumination in the chapel of St Paul.

Easter Sunday.—The gallery erected for strangers, in St. Peter's, was already filled from 7 to 8 o'clock in the morning. The ladies wore black dresses and vails, the whole church, however, had laid aside its mourning array, and shone out in full splendor, as did also the sun, which seems to smile upon all the festivals of Rome. Ladies who arrive after 8 o'clock, are obliged, spite of their entrance cards, to stand or sit upon the floor of the church. One sits or stands, and waits till twelve o'clock, when the Pope first makes his entrance, borne aloft, as usual, on men's shoulders, surrounded by peacock's feathers and wearing the Papal tiara, brilliant with gold and jewels.[11] The ceremonies and the music appeared to me similar to those of Christmas day. The Pope, now, as then, is robed and disrobed; his feet and his garments are kissed; incense is offered, bells are rung, and there is a great ado; the only difference being that every thing now is on a more pompous scale. The throng in the church was immense, but very quiet. The French military were arranged on both sides, the whole length of the nave. When the Pope elevated the host, the whole mass of people fell upon their knees, trumpets were blown, and beautiful, triumphant music sounded from the cupola, and, as on Christmas day, it was a moment of the most elevating emotion.

After this, the throng poured out of the church to receive the benediction of the Pope. We followed with the stream. The French troops were drawn up in the square before St. Peter's, in straight figures and lines; around these shone a variegated crowd of people, in the joyous sunshine. The showy red and white head-dresses of the country-people were adorned with flowers. Every eye was directed to the balcony of St. Peter's, which by degrees was filled with the white-hooded bishops, and they waited now to see the Pope come forward. In about twenty minutes, he made his appearance, borne aloft above the white-headed bishops, upon his crimson throne, with his peacock's feathers and the triple crown around his golden tiara; and in an audible voice he pronounced his benediction in the following words, in Latin:

“May the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, in whose power and dominion we trust, pray for us to the Lord! Amen.

“Through the prayers and merits of the blessed, eternal Virgin Maria, of the blessed Archangel Michael, the blessed John the Baptist, the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, and all saints, may the Almighty God have mercy upon you, may your sins be forgiven you, and may Jesus Christ lead you to eternal life. Amen.

“Indulgence, absolution, and forgiveness of all your sins; time for true repentance, a continual penitent heart and amendment of life, may the almighty and merciful God grant you these! Amen.”

At the words “El Benedictio,” in the concluding sentence, the Pope rose, made the sign of the cross over the people, who fell upon their knees, and at the word “descendat” he lifted up his arms to heaven, and laid them crosswise upon his breast.

Cannon thundered from the fortress of St. Angelo, military music struck up, and all the bells of Rome were rung. The moment was not without its solemn pomp.

The Pope withdrew into St. Peter's, and the Cardinal-Vicar threw down a large paper, which the people hastened forward endeavoring to catch. It was a written papal Indulgenza plenario, for all such as, during Lent, fulfilled the conditions of this pardon. The paper fell, this time, direct to the ground, and the boys had a scramble for it.

To all this succeeded the endless confusion and difficulty of getting home. The great number of guards, however, and the order which was maintained all the way from St. Peter's, on the Bridge of St. Angelo, and even into the city, prevented any accident occurring. The spectacle was splendid; in particular, upon the above-mentioned bridge across the Tiber, which lay, calm as a mirror, gleaming in the sunshine. I have never seen, in any city or any festival, such a vast magnificence of equipages and liveries. The carriages of the cardinals are distinguished above all others by their gilding and their magnificent horses. Nevertheless, the festival which was now being celebrated was in commemoration of Him who said, “My kingdom is not of this world!” But who now thinks of that? The vast crowd were here to behold the great splendor, to behold the Pope, in his triple crown, blessing the people!

In the afternoon, I went to the Colosseum, where I heard a Capuchin monk preach about the spiritual resurrection, and that in so truly an evangelical and popular manner as was pleasure to hear. Afterwards, people went in procession, La Via Crucis. I met many pilgrims going from church to church to perform their devotions.[12] During the whole of this week they are frequently met with in the streets of Rome.

In the evening, we beheld from the balcony of Rudolf Lehman, on La Ripetta, a peculiar and never-to-be-forgotten sight. At our feet lay the Tiber, in the calm waters of which the stars were reflected. From the opposite bank, extended the open plain, without houses or trees which could impede the view; on the left rose a dark shadow,—the gloomy fortress of St. Angelo, the ancient mausoleum of Hadrian,—whose red light gleamed, and instrumental music sounded in the air. But the eye did not linger on the Tiber, or the fortress of St. Angelo; it was occupied from the first moment by a wonderful, enchanting sight. In the distance, rose up from the desolate Campagna,—which, in the darkness of evening, resembled an immense vacuum,—a gigantic monument,—so, at least, it appeared to me,—the whole circumference of which, colonnade, façade, and giant dome, were traced out in bright silver flames. The harmony and regularity of these silver lines was perfect. Quietly burning with the softest light, the beautiful temple, standing on the dark earth, and seen against the dark blue sky background, produced an indescribable effect, beautiful and solemn at the same time. It was a sight which drew tears from eyes, I know not whether more of joy or of emotion but even this emotion had its pleasure.

The church had stood thus for about an hour, burning in silver glory, when, at a given sign, a change took place. In a moment, millions of golden flames darted forth over the dome and the façade, first, as if in chaotic confusion, but soon arranging themselves into regular cruciform flowers of burning gold. In the dazzling splendor of these, the pure outlines of silver flame vanished, and the whole church seemed to gleam forth in golden fire. An audible exclamation of joy reached us from the side of the Vatican; music sounded, and all the bells rang.

The pleasant freshness of the evening air, the undisturbed peace in which we were able, from M. Lehman's balcony, to contemplate the spectacle; the Tiber, with its clear star-reflections, and on the horizon St. Peter's brilliant church,—the great monument of art and nature,—the small but agreeable company within the room, and not the least, the artist himself, and his pictures, all contributed to make this evening one of the richest in enjoyment, to me, in Rome. Of the many symbolical spectacles which the Holy Week affords, the illumination of St. Peter's appears to me the only one which is perfectly beautiful and pure, as well as intelligible to all.

Three hundred and sixty men, it is said, are required in this illumination, which is not without danger.

On the second day of Easter, I was present, by the invitation of Madame ——, at the ceremony of the initiation into the Catholic church of the young English lady, N. H., in the Convent of the Sacré Cœur on Trinita di Monte. Monsignor L—— performed the rite with great circumstance and much ceremony. Satan was conjured, many times, to “depart out of this young person, and to give God the glory;” he was especially conjured to depart out of every portion of her body, which was, with that, crossed and touched by the priest with the thumb, moistened first with saliva, then with holy oil. Eyes, ears, nostrils, forehead, mouth, shoulders, breast, back, and so on, were signed with the cross in this manner, to drive out Satan. Every thing which came in contact with the newly converted, even the salt which was laid upon her lips, underwent the same conjuration and blessing. This seemed to me petty and childish, though I acknowledge the importance of that which it symbolizes, namely—that true religion (according to the meaning of the Catholic church) will consecrate every thing in and around the human being, to God's service. The words of abjuration in which the young girl renounced the faith of her fathers, were remarkably forcible:

“I abhor and I renounce the errors and heresies in which I have been brought up, and which have separated me from the only sacred, saving Catholic church.”

She then vowed, according to the formula, that she would in the first place “believe in the infallibility of the Roman Catholic church, in the immaculate conception of the Virgin, in the worship of the saints, and the power of their intercessions; in the fire of purgatory, and, finally, in the Saviour Jesus Christ, and his eternally sufficing atonement for us with God.” “The true faith,” taught Monsignor L——, “consists in this: that we ought to worship in the Trinity a one God, and in the unity a Trinity, without confounding the persons, and without separating the substance. Because the person of the Father is one, the person of the Son is one, and the person of the Holy Ghost is one, but in these there is one substance and one divinity.”

The many repetitions of the prayers, the exhortations, and the conjurations, rendered the ceremony long and wearisome. I was particularly struck with the symbolism of the circumstance when the young, newly-baptized for she also underwent the rite of baptism anew was led by the priest into the church, she holding fast by a broad scarf which he wore around his neck. Yes, she had given up the evangelical liberty, in which the human being is alone led by the Lord, to be guided by the leading-strings of the priest and the priesthood, for, according to the Roman Catholic doctrine, the priesthood constitutes the church. She had gone back from the church of the independent manhood to that of the child not yet of age. But, perhaps she was one of those who require this latter means of help to support them in the conflict with evil. Confession, and a good, true, Christian father-confessor, evidently constitute an important means for this purpose.

“A good father-confessor,” it depends upon that. The honest avowal of the Catholic Christian, as that of Madame Guion and Madame Dudevant, (George Sand), has shown us that the father-confessor may be as often injurious as profitable.

By the side of the young girl, stood during the ceremony, in quality of god-mother, the Marchioness of Grammont, née Princess of Baden, an elderly lady, with traces of great beauty, and with much natural dignity of manner. The young girl, who was very pretty, but whose countenance showed more of intellect and clearness than feeling, had caused much grief to her Protestant parents, resident in Paris, by her conversion to the Catholic Church; but this was of no consequence.

There was a great deal that was beautiful and Christian in the exhortations of Monsignor L——, but still that could not disguise from me the unchristian part of this abjuration, and the erroneous conception of the Christian Church upon which it is based. When the ceremony was over, the seven or eight persons who were present, congratulated her who “had returned to the bosom of the church,” as the phrase was, after which the noble Marchioness and some other persons came up to me, and expressed the hope that I also should soon become a member of the only saving church. I replied, that “I hoped to increase in a knowledge of the truth,” leaving them to guess what I meant thereby.

The evening of this day had nearly been tragical for me and my young friend. We were going, with the whole world of Rome, to see from the Piazza del Popolo, La Girandola, or the grand fireworks, which, according to a design of Michael Angelo's, are displayed annually on Monte Pincio, whence, as far as the square, people have been employed for the last two weeks in erecting various mysterious looking stages. We had received tickets from Monsignor Laschiavo, which would admit us to a gallery just opposite, and a young Norwegian countryman of ours was to accompany us. Every thing seemed arranged in the best possible manner. A mistake in the hour, however, caused our young friend to be after his time, and Jenny and I, therefore, went to the place alone. Finding the gallery already fully occupied, we got into a passage, whence there was no exit, between the wall and the gallery, and which was becoming more and more thronged with people, who crushed through the guard, and believed, like ourselves, that they could here find room. The press, however, soon became terrific, and increased every moment; so that movement was no longer possible, one was crushed, and even lifted from one's feet, by the urgent crowd which, like a flock of sheep, blindly thrust themselves together. Jenny became separated from me; I could no longer see her, and there was a smell as of burning clothes. I uttered a cry, with the design of making the guard aware of the irrational crowding into this “cul de sac;” but my cry was lost in the noise of the throng. Never since my excursion across the Mer de Glace with Louise C——, on Chamouni, have I experienced such anxiety as I did now. At that moment I heard a manly voice exclaim in French:

“Mademoiselle pleure! Qu'est il arrive? Qu'est-ce qu'il-y-a?”

Jenny, in a fit of hysterical weeping, leant against the shoulder of a stout gentleman, who good-naturedly, let her support herself in this manner; and, in the mean time roused the attention of the Commander of the Guard. I now perceived him, and saw her also at no great distance from me, I besought of him to protect us, to obtain for us breathing-room, and, if possible, to aid us in leaving this place. Now, for the first time, he became aware how the people from without were crushing into this passage, whence there was no exit, and caused a crush, which most certainly would in some minutes have placed many in peril of their lives. He immediately commanded the soldiers, who were French, to clear the passage forcibly and compel the advancing stream to turn back.

In a moment we had breathing room, and a few minutes afterwards were able to move and think about escaping from the trap. The French officer, after having defended us from the press, conducted us with the greatest kindness and politeness out of the disagreeable passage; the French soldiers also assisted us kindly and politely down the flight of steps, and thus we at length reached an open space, where, in perfect ease, we were able to see the fireworks extremely well.

When our deliverer left us in order to return to his post, I besought him to let us know his name; and if M. Louis Girard should by chance hear of this. my narrative, I beg of him to accept once more in these pages a cordial acknowledgment of the chivalric politeness, the manly kindness with which he behaved in protecting two solitary ladies who were totally unknown to him.

We were now able in perfect peace and freedom to witness the magnificent fireworks, the fiery dragons and rockets of which rushed above the square. Jenny no longer wept, but laughed at herself, and at every thing. I, on the contrary, felt myself again ready to weep, and the splendid suns and scenery of the fireworks could not prevent my feeling the effect of the anxiety through which I had just passed. But then I had suffered anxiety for two.

The fireworks were amongst the most splendid I had ever seen, and succeeded in all respects, except in the illumination of the great cross erected on Monte Pincio, above the church, with the Pope's tiara and arms. This cross was only partially lit up, and the burning portions soon went out, and sparks fell down like ashes. It then looked dark, and, as it were, threatening above the church, blazing with the Pontifical insignia, around which swarmed innumerable comets, suns, and rushing dragons, with long tails of fire and—ashes. The people of the Piazza del Popolo behaved, as they always do in Home, quietly and peacefully. Neither were they Italians who pressed so rudely forward in the passage of the gallery, their educazione would have prevented their doing so they were for the most part foreigners, and as I believe, young Englishmen, with their ladies senza educazione. When the fireworks were over the crowd dispersed, like the waters of a quiet stream.

How pleasant it is again to find one's self at peace in a tranquil home, and it was pleasant also that Monsignor Laschiavo came and helped to dissipate the effect of the afternoon's disagreeable adventure, by his descriptions of Calabria and its earthquakes. He sympathized however very warmly in our misadventures; he had in vain looked out for us in the gallery with the intention of securing for us a good place.

That was yesterday, and to-day (April 6th) I am alone in my Roman house. The good young girl, who has made this winter beautiful to me, has this morning, in company with our young countryman Baron Nordenfalks, returned to her northern home, and to her relatives. Her life's romance will soon commence there, an important chapter.

They are also, in my Swiss home by “the living waters,” making ready for a wedding, and the preparations are worthy of the pure earnestness, the idyllian beauty and peace of the Swiss home. How fresh are those valleys!

Whilst my young sisters are making ready for the joyous festival of life, I am myself looking forward to a conflict which has been for some time silently preparing, in the manner which I will now relate.

One day—I believe it was in January—Madame de M—— took me in her carriage a drive in the park of the Villa Borghese, when unfortunately, our conversation turning upon Luther, Madam de M—— made use of the expression, “that Luther, who misled so many souls,” I added, “the honest, truth-loving Luther, who led them to the knowledge of God's word!” In this spirit of contradiction we paused, and I saw no more of Madame de M—— for several weeks. A coolness had come between us.

Resolved in all things and with all my acquaintances to be in every respect honest and true, I made no effort to regain the friendly good will of any one, the basis of which was religious zeal to which I could not respond. But the spring came and with it my countrywomen. The Grand-Duchess Helena again brought us together unexpectedly. Again Madame de M—— spoke of the wealth of the Catholic doctrines, and again I listened willingly to the expression of her pure happiness, and wished to hear still more regarding certain of those doctrines, which had been so blessed to her. I consented therefore to see and to converse with the Prelate Monsignor L—— whom I afterwards found to be a man of much erudition, agreeable manners, and refinement, though on all important subjects we were but little agreed.

He, like all other Catholic prelates—Cardinal Wiseman of London amongst the rest—commenced with the supposition, that the unlearned—that is to say, people in general—cannot possibly understand the Holy Scripture, excepting through the intervention and interpretation of the church. In reply to this I told him of the peasants in the High Valleys of Switzerland, and amongst the Waldenses, of Père Ansermey, of Emanuel Isabel, of Edith Marmillon on her sick bed; of those congregations of unlearned mountaineers who without any teachers govern themselves by the light of the Holy Scriptures, and in so doing find their highest joy. Occasionally the concession would be extorted from the Catholic Monsignor, that “possibly the Protestant Christian might be saved, but—scarcely and with great pains.” Sometimes I would take the initiative and attack certain usages of the Catholic Church, which stand in open opposition to the custom and teaching of the apostolic church; for example, why has the Catholic Church abandoned the original institution of the holy communion of the bread and wine? Why do the Catholic priests retain the wine for themselves alone without allowing the laymen to have any part thereof?

“You know,” replied Monsignor L—— “that in ancient times abuse easily crept in with the use of wine in the Holy Communion, and besides—wine is not œ easily obtained in many countries.”

“I know it, Monsignor,” I answered, “because wine is not produced in my northern native land, and the people are poor rather than rich. Nevertheless wine never fails, even for the very poorest, at the commemoration festival of the Lord.”

But it would be extending the subject too far to enumerate all the points which came under our discussion and on which we differed. Persons, such as Madame de M——, the tall, enthusiastic nun of the Sacré Cœur, give me a stronger feeling of the peculiar advantages of Catholicism than these learned prelates.

During Lent, the French sermons in San Luigi di Françesi commenced; in the first place by a French preacher whose name was St. Paul, and afterwards by the Carmelite monk Marie Louis. The former had talent and zeal, but no gifts in comparison with the latter. The former was a fervent and castigating preacher who zealously enforced general confession. “The fully-accomplished duty of honest confession was,” he reported, “sufficient for the sanctification of the world.” He was also a zealous advocate of the holy obligation of missionary labor.

“Protestant Christians,” he exclaimed, “give annually forty millions of francs for this work, and Catholic laymen, oh shame! only four!”

The white foam flew around his lips in his fervor as he preached.

The Carmelite monk spoke in a calmer strain; he violated no sense of beauty even during his most fervent effusions; his voice, his words, his look, found their way to the soul. They seemed to proceed from the depths of the soul, as the natural expression of its life.

Many conversions to Catholicism occurred in Rome at this time. An American lady of a Quaker family, and belonging to the highest society in Boston, may be mentioned as amongst them. I had known this lovely and intellectual woman during my residence in Boston, and seen her as one of the ornaments of its social circles. I saw her again in Rome, found her enraptured by the eloquence of the Carmelite monk, enraptured by all the beauty and poetry wherewith the Catholic Church adorns its apparent unity. She drew comparisons between this and the bald nakedness of the Friends' meeting-houses and the Unitarian churches; she remarked what a contrast between the splitting-up of the churches in her native land, and the imposing unity of the Catholic church; she compared the dogmatical rigidity which prevailed amongst some of the religious teachers there, with the winning, insinuating manners of the Catholic prelates. Ill health had led her to seek its restoration in the south of Europe; ill health had excited her sensibility; she needed nourishment, unity, harmony for her soul, and she fancied that she should find in the Catholic Church, all that which she had hitherto been seeking for in the dark.

I found her more dazzled by the Catholic ecclesiastical life than clear regarding its relationship to the spirit. I besought her, after a long and earnest conversation, still to wait, still to reflect, before she gave in her adhesion to the Catholic faith. It was too late. She had already done so, but with the utmost quietness. Monsignor L—— had admitted her into the Papal church. She had now written on the subject to her husband and to her mother, and she knew that so doing she should cause them great sorrow. Nevertheless, she felt herself supremely happy in the new world which she had entered; she seemed to herself as if borne on the wings of angels. I listened to her with astonishment, and with deep sympathy. There was in this soul so much humility, such a pure impulse, such good-will in seeking only for God and his truth, that it was impossible for me to doubt of her conversion being in some measure the work of the Eternal Truth, for which she sought, and which she now merely saw too exclusively in one certain form. But the language of polemics died upon my lips.

“You will teach the proud Protestants,” I said to her, “how much truth and beauty exists in the Catholic faith; and God will teach you to see this eternal truth in the belief and church of your fathers,—the church of the Pilgrim-fathers, upon the foundation of which the New World built, and still builds, its power. In the love of Christ, the two churches are one. True Christians, in both of them, will teach them the better to understand each other.”

Such were my parting words to the amiable American lady, whom I never felt nearer to me than at the moment when we, in our ecclesiastical faith, were separated forever.

This meeting, however, together with the renewed admonitions of Madame de M—— and Sœur Geneviève,—for so I will call the proselyting nun of Sacré Cœur,—that during my retraite in this Convent, I would become thoroughly acquainted with the Catholic doctrines, and the requirements of my own soul at the same time, caused me to determine on making this retraite. It was evident to me that I never could have a better opportunity of clearly testing not only the principles of the Catholic, as of the Protestant church, and of making fully clear to myself the respective merits and failings of both, and that such an occasion I ought not to despise. I have candidly told my kind Catholic friends that I shall not be converted to the Catholic faith, but that, desiring to obtain more enlightenment on various of their doctrines, I shall be obliged to them,—that is to say, my friends,—if they will aid me in this matter. The thing is now, therefore, decided, and as soon as I have paid sundry visits, and have arranged my small worldly affairs, I enter, for an undetermined period, the Convent Sacré Cœur, where Sœur Geneviève will will become my instructress, and Père Marie Louis, the Carmelite monk, my spiritual teacher.

When I leave the Convent, I shall not return hither, to my home on the Corso, but take up my abode on the Capitoline Hill, where I have engaged rooms for myself.

“You'll be converted to Catholicism!” says every one, with a shake of the head, to whom I have communicated my retraite; “these priests are so cunning!”

I reply, “No, I shall not; but I shall be the better able to understand both the differences and the points of union of the two creeds.”

To others of my acquaintance, who ask where I am going, I reply promiscuously, Casa Tarpeia, Albano, Naples, every place where I am intending to go, without stating the exact time; and thus I hope, without exciting any attention, to pass through the trial of my faith in the Convent.

Sacre Cœur, Trinita di Monte, April 14th.—And now I am here, in this so-called Retraite, but which is considerably more like a battle than a quiet life devoted to serious reflection, exposed as I am, morning, noon, and night, to the fervent zeal and the torrent-like eloquence of Sister Geneviève, regarding my conversion to “the only true church,” whilst, in the mean time, my forenoons are occupied with the Exercises of Ignatius Loyola, which she allows me to go through. It would most assuredly be less difficult to pass through ordeals of fire and water, than a continued ordeal of talk. Hence I cut but a poor figure in this, and often grow impatient, especially in the evening, when Sœur Greneviève's fervor of conversation increases sometimes to an actual storm, and occasions a tumult in my brain, in comparison with which that of the Corso and the Carnival is nothing. The result of this is, that, hitherto, I have found myself every evening more and more Protestant, and have resolved, the following morning, to leave the convent—forever. In the morning, however, I find my courage again renewed, and think that I ought still to remain. And I do so, accordingly.

The second part of the trial—and that which probably keeps me here consists, on the contrary, in a contest which both interests and amuses me. It is a controversy with the bare-footed Carmelite monk, Père Marie Louis, who comes every afternoon, and converses with me for two or three hours—sometimes longer—and so far from my being at all fatigued, I feel rather enlivened by the discussion. His solid erudition (he has given up a professorship in one of the southern towns of France, whilst still young—he appears not much above thirty—that he might enter into the strict Carmelite order), his acute reasoning powers, his unmistakable piety, his unruffled calmness and moderation during controversy, united with the natural esprit of the Frenchman, made discussion with him both instructive and agreeable. He himself seems amused by it, as well as I, and it seems to concentrate more and more decidedly around two main points, namely, the infallibility of the Catholic church, and the right it thence derives to decide upon that which must be believed and taught, and the ability of the human being to perceive of himself and to comprehend the divine, eternal Truth. He asserts the former, and denies the latter. I deny the former, and assert the latter. And the conversation, with each succeeding day, goes still deeper into the ground of the questions. We each express our opinions without reserve, and I feel that he is perfectly candid, and like myself, alone wishful to discover the truth.

Above the writing-table in my large and light room, with its view into the garden of the convent, hangs a portrait of Ignatius Loyola, with its fatally cunning expression, precisely the true Jesuit, as the Protestants conceive the character; and, below this portrait, I write, read, and make extracts from the great number of books which the kind Sœur Geneviève daily brings me, and from which I, in great measure, derive my knowledge of the doctrines of the Catholic church, especially from Le Catechism du Concile de Trente. There, also, she reads to me Loyola's Exercises, which contain some very good and wholesome discipline for the mind, and some, also, of a very childish and mechanical character, as, for instance, to hold the breath some minutes between every several section of the Lord's Prayer. Even Sœur Geneviève rejects these puerilities; but it is evident to me, however, that she has hitherto had only to do with children in mind, nay, that she herself is such a one. Hence her stories of absurd miracles; hence the importance which she gives to receiving the absolution of the Romish church on the death-bed, as an infallible passport to heaven, and the importance which, for the same purpose, she attaches to the daily repetition of every prayer through the rosary.

This morning, the young English lady, Edith H——, renounced the Protestant faith in the little chapel Mater Admirabilis, and adopted that of the Catholic church, to which she was baptized anew. The English Cardinal Monsignor Talbot—who has the appearance of a man of the flesh, rather than of the spirit—performed the ceremony in a simple and brief manner, very unlike that in which Monsignor L—— conducted it on the occasion of the elder sister's entrance into the Catholic church. The form of the renunciation was, however, the same now as then. The newly-converted “hates and renounces all the errors of her former belief,” and promises, in the first place, faith and obedience to the doctrines and commands of the infallible Roman church especially as they are expressed by the Council of Trent; finally, she promises to believe in Jesus Christ. “The Church first: then—the Saviour.” Such is the doctrine of the Roman Catholic church.

Cardinal Talbot held a somewhat longer discourse, in which he displayed both talent and energy; but what injustice to the reformed church! What distorted, narrow views of faith and the essence of Christianity! One might have believed that they were merely certain dogmas and forms epitomized! When the speaker, with his eyes raised to heaven, lamented his “unfortunate fatherland, England, as having renounced the truth and sunk into depths of error,” I involuntarily fixed upon him a sternly protesting glance, of which I believe he was aware; because he looked again and again, inquiringly, toward the part of the chapel where I, as well as all the others, were kneeling.

I am told here, every day, of persons of consequence in England, Germany, and other countries, who have been converted from the Protestant to the Roman Catholic church; they wish to entice me to follow their example, and, therefore, spare neither flatteries nor other means of persuasion. Many converts, I believe, are attracted to Catholicism by some beautiful doctrines which it has preserved, and which the Protestant church has rejected; many also are imposed upon by the apparent stability of the Catholic church; while the Protestant church also, apparently, is falling to pieces. They are besides imposed upon by the positive tone and security of many Catholics, and for the rest, as a new convert said to me: “it is so convenient to avoid beating one's brains in the search after truth, and to be able to leave all solicitude on this score to others, and to believe on their word.”

Yes, it may be well enough for all such as love convenience, but for them who love the truth?”——

“I do not know of any Christian church!” exclaimed Sœur Geneviève, yesterday, in her fervor against me, who had used this expression, “I know only the Catholic, for it is the only true church!”

April 16th.—Sœur Geneviève is really a good woman, and has such a burning zeal, that I believe she would be willing to die if she could convert me to “the only saving church;” and the truth is, that in so doing—according to the Catholic teaching—she would have acquired for herself an immortal rank in the kingdom of heaven. But her enthusiastic character leads her to forget both sense and moderation. Every time she enters my room, especially in the evening, I am obliged to prepare myself for a regular storm. She talks incessantly; does not listen to what I reply, or does not trouble herself about it; argues, declaims, exhorts, conjures, and prophecies my exaltation—which would be “colossal”—if I would but be converted to the Catholic church, and bend my knee in confession to a priest;—or my humiliation, which will be that of pure “annihilation,” perfect “reprobation,” if I reject the grace which is now offered to me, and persevere in my errors. The Pope himself has said “that I might become a Saint Brigitta for my country!”

And they think that with reasoning of this kind they can move me. They attribute my obstinate, wicked will to pride, to selfishness, to the devil, whilst I feel ever more and more clearly that it is our Lord himself in His revelation of the light and the liberty of the gospel. There are nevertheless two subjects on which I should like to hear Sœur Geneviève speak; these are the doctrine of purgatory, and the uninterrupted connection with the departed—those whom we call the dead—doctrines which, when they are divested of their childish forms, constitute the requirements of every feeling, thinking, human, soul, and of which the most ancient traditions and the paintings also in the Catacombs, testify, and which I believe that all persons, with heads, and hearts, secretly believe in, when their spirits are not fettered in the prison-house of certain dogmatical doctrines. They seem to me so important both for life and consciousness, that they alone might attract souls into the church which retains them, from that which has rejected them, if one looked exclusively at them, and did not feel one's self able to receive them into a higher church, the church of Christ, the church of the eternal Comforter in spirit and in truth.

Judge for yourself, my R——! You have a child, a dear relative, or friend. The beloved one dies, and dies in a state of the soul which most assuredly would exclude him from the communion of the saints and from heaven. Are you forever separated from him? Is there nothing, nothing more which you can do for him? With all your love, with all your ardent longing, is there nothing you can do for his eternal well-being?

“Yes,” says the Catholic doctrine, “there is! Your prayers, your actions, may follow him, with elevating, saving power, even into the dark realms of space, whither he (or she) is gone. You are not spiritually sundered. You may forever live for him, as he for you!”

Precious doctrine! Which needs only to be divested of the dead or mechanical forms which the Catholic church during the lapse of centuries has invested it, to become one with the innermost life and doctrine of the gospel. For it is not masses for the soul, thoughtlessly read by indifferent priests, even though they be read for centuries, which can operate savingly for that soul which is dear to you, but your own life filled with prayer and deeds of love to his memory, or for his sake. And he who promised one day to make him ruler over much who has been faithful in the little, he will give you power and opportunity, according to the ability which you possess to work for the soul you love. This belongs to the order of God's spiritual world. Men—the individual or generations—are eternally bound together, as well here as hereafter. The circumstance of death cannot dissolve the spiritual bond. They who are gone before work for us, and we for them, in good or in evil, as we are united to or separated from the fountain of eternal life. It cannot be otherwise. And how much more important, how much more beautiful and complete our life here on earth becomes when we comprehend its relationship, not merely with the future, but also with departed generations.

It is likewise a requirement of a sense of justice and sound reason, that an intermediate state, and an intermediate time should be afforded for the millions of imperfect souls, who leave this earth before their final dwellings are decided as a consequence of their actions here. The most ancient dogmas of the human race have accepted this belief, and Christianity has not contradicted this or other doctrines, which proceed from time immemorial out of the depths of human consciousness. Christianity has taught us to know God, the imperishable life of our own being, and the inability of death to destroy it. On this we needed enlightenment, and that is enough.

The doctrine of Indulgences, on which I found an inexplicable chaos of opinions—amongst which Catholics themselves hold the most opposite—may have truth for its basis, in so far that the eternal, universal church—but which is not the Pontifical!—has the right to deliver the repentant sinner from punishment, the right to give him power also to effect the deliverance of others. This also is a spiritual law of nature because it is a law of justice and love. The Roman Catholic church, however, has changed this doctrine of spirit and truth to a dead mechanism, an arbitrary system of pardon wholly unconnected with moral and spiritual order. Nor is this to be wondered at, when even its idea of the church has become a petrification. For, according to this idea, it is not they who are living in the spirit of Christ who constitute the church, but they who by means of Papal sanction, and the laying on of priestly hands, are consecrated thereto. Thus the Pope consecrates the Cardinals, and these again every new Pope, even though they be monsters, such as Alexander VI., and his worthy son, the Cardinal Cæsar Borgia! And they then receive the Holy Ghost and power “to bind and loose!”

“But it was not to such men as these that Christ gave the power;” I have said many a time during my warfare with the Catholics; “it was to His Apostles, men who lived in Him, loved Him, obeyed and followed Him, men who were in themselves participant of His life and His spirit. Such only can constitute His church, such only can receive the Holy Spirit, and with it the right, in Christ's stead, to bind and to loose!”

“That which constitutes precisely the excellence of our church,” it is replied to me, “is that the individual persons are of so little consequence. The Holy Spirit does not inquire after the person; it is communicated to an Alexander VI., also to a Cæsar Borgia, at the moment they may resolve upon dogmas of faith, and converts them into organs of the truth, even though they themselves may afterwards have to be burned in hell for their actions!”

“In order to dissipate your doubts on this subject,” said Monsignor L——, on one occasion, to me, “I must tell you that the Pope is by no means the sole originator, or is alone responsible for the resolutions which proceed from him in matters of faith. They are prepared by from twenty to thirty persons, who—you would seek for them in vain; they are scattered in convents, or, once members of holy orders, are distinguished by their learning and acuteness of intellect, for their knowledge of ecclesiastical traditions and old customs; they it is, who prepare the transactions which are afterwards received by the Papal council, and which the Pope usually merely signs.”

If it be so, and I have no doubt on the subject, then it appears to me that the Pope's position and outward consideration is a piece of actual charlatanry.[13]

Last evening, the prophetic spirit fell upon Sœur Geneviève, under the influence of which, drawing herself up to her full height, she, with upraised arms, foretold the fall of the temporal power of the Pope, war, bloodshed, and great revolutions, but out of which the Catholic church shall come forth renovated, victorious, poor, but holy and powerful, as in the early times.

If Sœur Geneviève had not been a nun, she would unquestionably have been a great actress. High praise is due to her, when it is recollected that she has, whilst still young, handsome, eloquent, gifted with talents, and beloved by the world, chosen, nevertheless, the portion of poverty and lowliness. She exalts the condition of the Catholic church in France, as far superior to that of Rome.

My conversations with the Carmelite Monk, are, in comparison with those with Sœur Geneviève, as a clear, tranquil stream with a rushing cataract, and they always afford me pleasure, although they still more plainly make it evident that we shall never agree on the main points; because he adheres steadfastly to the belief that there can be no calmness and no security for such as disavow the authority of the Catholic church. I, on the contrary, maintain that that which led him to accept it, is the same inner, free choice which he disallows in me when it causes me to disavow this authority of the outward. But the difference is, that I go further than he, and that I will not ground my faith upon an authority which is contrary to my rational conscience. I believe on God in Christ, because my rational conscience bids me to do so, since I have learned in the Holy Scriptures to know Him, and the tenor of his revelation.

“Your principle,” I say to him, “condemns your spirit to a state of stagnation, nay, to a contradiction of yourself. If your reason and your conscience tell you that a certain dogma adopted at the ecclesiastical assembly of Trent is not in accordance with the doctrine of Christ, with justice and with equity—as, for example—as is contained in the catechism of the Romish church that the children which die before they have received baptism, are excluded forever from the joys of heaven, a doctrine which caused Dante to give the terrible picture of a twilight realm, where was heard the eternal lamenting and weeping of children, ‘weeping without suffering,’ says he, but yet how terrible to think of! If, I say, your understanding, enlightened by the love of Christ, should point out to you the irrationality, nay, the impiety of such a doctrine, you would not be able to reject it, would not be able to think that this ecclesiastical assembly of three hundred years ago, may not have been in error!"

“It could not have been in error; it is I who must be in the wrong!” says Père Marie Louis; “the human reason, the human heart, is full of error.”

“There are, however, certain great points of agreement amongst all people, and in all times. They have accepted Christianity, and Christ has promised his spirit to every one who loves him and follows his commandments. God has given an eye for his truth.”

“But it is darkened,” replies Père Marie Louis; “We require an outward institution, an outward canon, to guide us.”

“We have that in Christ himself, and in the Scriptures, which present to us most clearly his image.”

“That is not sufficient,” persists Père Marie Louis; “We are not capable of understanding this without the help of the church.”

“Very true,” I replied; “we acknowledge that, in order more fully to explain, and the better to understand the Scriptures, we require the assistance of such as are better and more thoroughly taught; above all, of such as are more faithfully the disciples of Christ than we; but then they must really be so,—they must be men of the spirit and of the truth. If the word of Christ and the Apostles be opposed to theirs, then they cannot be so.”

“But who shall be the judge of that? How can we venture to do it?” asked the monk.

“If I could not do it,” I replied, “after having, with prayer and meditation, sought for light from the Lord of light, then, as a general rule, neither could I judge between truth and error. I might just as well, in that case, be a Mohammedan or a Fetich-worshiper, as a Christian.”

“Look at the number and varieties of sects in your church,” observed Père Marie Louis. “Where is their unity?”

“In Jesus Christ and his kingdom,” I answered. “This is their centre, their point of union; and their fault is merely that they do not comprehend it so fully and so strongly as that it should outweigh the differences of secondary importance, which, I believe, must always arise amongst men of dissimilar gifts, and in dissimilar circumstances, but which, properly understood, contribute to the development of Christian science.”

Our conversation generally turns upon these points, and each one of us abides by our own views, and we mutually repeat the same arguments; whilst the logical ingenuity and the refined wit of Père Louis Marie always amuses me as much as the various flights of the discussion. Occasionally they cause us both to burst into very refreshing fits of laughter. Père Marie Louis is as amiable as he is pious, and I might feel ready wholly and humbly to make my confessions to him, if he and the good Catholics here would not consider it as a conversion to their church, from which I never was further than I am at the present moment.

But seriously, I would warn Protestant families from sending their young daughters into Convents such as this. Young people are not equal to a combat with these Catholics, more especially as the Protestant church still possesses so much faith in Catholic authority, although with her it has another object than that of the Catholics.

April 17th.—Edith's first communion, according to the Catholic custom, took place to-day, with great solemnity, in the little chapel Mater Admirabilis. Père Marie Louis preached, and the nuns sang so beautifully, that I was affected to tears, although, within myself, I made a protest against the one-sided comprehension of the church which furnished the subject of his discourse, and the equally one-sided distribution of the sacramental elements,—the bread alone,—when Christ, in his communion of the Last Supper, gave both of the bread and the wine to his followers. The Catholic church, which places itself in Christ's stead, puts the people—they who are not priests—upon half rations. And not merely with regard to the sacrament of the Last Supper. The sphere of intelligence also is circumscribed or diminished. The young, lately-converted, Catholic-girl, with whom I have dined alone for the last two days, said to me yesterday, at dinner, reproachfully:

“You will now soon be leaving this Convent, and will forget both it and the Catholic church. And in the Protestant church there is next to nothing which is good for any thing.”

“But Edith,” I replied, “where was it that you were first instructed about Christ and his doctrine? Was not that in the Protestant church?”

“Oh yes, certainly about him,” she answered, “but—”

And the poor girl had not an idea that that was a principal thing.


The weather is beautiful, and after four-and-twenty hours of violent showers the sky is again brilliant, the trees put forth their leaves, and the birds sing. This Convent, which stands high, has a large garden with shadowy paths, between hedges of laurel and box. Here I like to walk, to watch the monthly roses coming out, the double anemones in flower; the peas in pod, and in the evening the sun set behind the hilly horizon beyond the fossil-like Rome. The air is pleasant, and every thing would be good, according to my feelings, if I could only be at peace from the perpetual work of conversion, most especially as carried on by my tall, zealous nun. I am tired of it, and shall soon take my leave of this retraite, to which I am, however, glad and thankful that I came; for have here become better acquainted with that which is best in the Catholic doctrines, and—with that which is the worst—and better also with the future of my own church. But I confess that I am glad to leave this Convent, where I cannot obtain any thing more for my spirit, and where I cannot breathe freely, neither fulfill my especial vocation.

The order Sacré Cœur was founded at the commencement of the present century by the Jesuits in Paris, who aimed at attaining by its means the same power over the education of the female youth which the Jesuit schools possess over that of the youthful male population in Catholic countries, and this has succeeded in no inconsiderable degree. The first Supérieure of the order, Madame Barras, a woman of remarkable qualities, is said to be still residing in Paris. The institution began with, the very smallest means, but is now possessed of eighty-three large houses and educational institutions in different countries. The rules of the order prescribe no particular ascetic practices, but the nuns bind themselves strictly to a life of humility and poverty. The serving-sisters here in the Convent are remarkably agreeable, orderly, and kind, while every thing is done with a bright and peaceful expression. Those engaged in instruction are pale, and look less affable and cheerful. Their costume is black, and a black vail is thrown over a white cap with a twisted trimming. The children who are educated here, amounting in number to upwards of sixty, look quite at their ease, and happy. The Convent Trinita di Monte, has a large handsome church, and several chapels, the nuns sing sweetly on Saturday and Sunday evenings, and also at other times.

April 18th.—I have made my adieus, and shall depart in a couple of hours.

Madame la Supérieure, a clever, little old woman, with a keen glance, said to me with somewhat of acerbity:

“You ought not to leave us yet; ought not to reject the now-offered mercy. Perhaps you may die within the year, and then!—And Lutheranism, what is it, after all? Nothing! A religious doctrine, the origin of which was that Henry VIII., of England, determined to be separated from his wife! People should reflect a little closely on such subjects!”

I was rather amazed at the historical knowledge and sagacity of which the good lady gave proof in these words. I was silent, as I generally am, when I do not feel it worth while to talk; but it could not prevent me from smiling a little to myself. The high spirits and natural good temper of Sœur Geneviève made the parting from her not difficult to me.

I parted from the Carmelite monk, on the contrary, with a sentiment of sincere reverence and gratitude. He has not been able to convince me of the infallibility of his church, nor of its right to be regarded as exclusively the organ of God's truth, neither of the want of ability in unlearned laymen to attain to it by acquaintance with the Saviour, through the Scriptures and prayer; he has, however, convinced me of the earnestness and honesty of the Catholic priest in his faith, and of his great value as a guide of souls when he lives according to his faith, and demands in himself the highest requirements in order to become, not merely a teacher, but even a providence. Men of this class, such as this Carmelite monk, are true priests of the Lord. I have never, not even with my nearest kindred in the faith, carried on a discussion, so continuous, so earnest, so keen, and which yet did not leave behind it a single bitter memory, nay, in fact, which left only one of purity and pleasantness. I seem to myself to have been contending with an angel. He has not conquered my spirit, but he has won my heart. My last words to him were:

“I have the same love as you. Can we not be united in it—in the love of Jesus, in his heart? This love is indeed the essential to the professing, believing Christian. It is not for nothing that we two have met here, in the Sacré Cœur! Will you not give me your hand, and not allow differences in outward dogmas to separate us?”

Père Marie Louis did not extend to me his hand, but he said:

“I shall pray for you. Remember that. I shall think of you every day with prayer during the mass, whilst I hold him—the Holy One—between my hands. And I believe that he will hear me; I believe that you will one day return into the bosom of the true church. You will not long remain where you now are.”

And thus we parted, probably forever on earth. But would that I might have a friend near me in my dying hour, as pious and kind as this Carmelite monk! He is shortly setting out on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and I perhaps too may go there in a while!

Casa Tarpeia, Monte Tarpeia, April 27th.—My dwelling is now upon the old Capitoline rock, and—words cannot express how good I find it for me to be here, and how happy I am far away from the noisy, dusty Corso, where one cannot have any peace for incessant festivals, and from the Convent, with its walls immuring both soul and body, its wearying labor of conversion—sometimes interesting it may be, sometimes almost intolerable—to be here, far away from all disquiet and all impediment, in the fullest freedom and peace!

The house in which I am living belongs to the Lutheran Evangelical community—honest Luther!—if I sincerely fought under thy shadow, then give to me now a glorious resting place as my reward—and the adjacent hospital of the community derives an income from the letting of apartments to persons of their own faith. The house stands in a garden on the spot where formerly stood the temple of Saturn—and how shall I describe the view which I have from my room? Below the rock I see the ruins of ancient Rome; the Forum, the Colosseum, rise up as if out of a grave, surrounded by a park brilliant with the verdure of spring. Here the Tiber mounts at the foot of Monte Aventino, throned aloft with its churches and its villas; and there, beyond these, extends the broad, verdant Campagna, bordered by the sea towards the districts of Astia, of Albano, and the Sabine hills, in a wide circuit. From the chain of the Alban hills rises Monte Cavi, with the Convent of the Passionists on its summit, the towns of Frascati, Albano, Aricia, and many others shining out white from the green terraces in its bosom. And above all this earthly scene, with its ruins and gardens, palaces, temples, villas, meadows, and hills, now beams the brightest of vernal heavens, now flames the brilliant sun of Italy. Below my window shines forth the rock foundation; the garden, with its roses and lilies, whilst tame doves come flying to my balcony, and this air, this freshness, freedom and peace, morning, noon, and night—there are almost too many good things!

I awake in the night with a joyous longing for the day; I rise early in the morning at—five o'clock, that I may witness the crimson light of sunrise, and the wondrously beautiful play of colors which it produces in the vast expanse of space. I behold the sun rise, and his earliest beams salute the little statue of Minerva on the tower of the Capitol. At noon I am seated at my writing-table, with the doors open upon the balcony, on which I go out now and then to bathe my temples in the glorious air of spring, and to let my eye wander over the landscape. I take my breakfast and dinner also with these doors open, whilst the most lovely white and silver-gray doves come tripping in upon the green carpet to gather up some of the crumbs of the table.

A respectable Italian matron, Theresa, trustworthy and kind as a faithful old servant in Sweden, waits upon me, and attends to my little household. In the afternoon I take my walks, visit churches, studios, or the parts of Rome with which I am unacquainted; in the evening, I again stand in my balcony, see the crescent moon rise above the shadows of the triumphal arches and ruins of ancient Rome, see little lights kindled along the Tiber and reflected in its waters.

I thank my Father in Heaven the whole day long, and work at my story “Father and Daughter.” I am writing this story with joy; because this picture represents the light-side of that portraiture of life of which my “Hertha” supplied the shadow-side.

After these two works I shall die more calmly.

May 1st.—I am obliged to remove, because my rooms, with their splendid view, were already engaged by a family who are now expected daily. I have now, therefore, a little corner-room in the same house, with one eye—for, is not the window the eye of the room?—turned to Rome and St. Peter's, and the other glancing down upon gardens, one of which is full of roses in flower, and with a view towards Monte Aventino, the Tiber and the Temple of Vesta, and beyond them across the Campagna, but of which objects a tree, growing before the window, and the foliage of which becomes thicker every day, prevents one from seeing much. But it is good and beautiful to be even here. Here are still the same peace and rest, the same pure air, the same obliging and comfortable Theresa to wait upon me. Instead of the doves, I have now four handsome, nice children, playing in the garden, and every evening a great dance of fire-flies which come in ever-increasing numbers, and give their brilliant ballets amongst the shadows of the garden, until towards midnight. In the morning, I am awakened by the cheerful twittering of a number of birds, and rise at the sound of the melodious bells of the little church, Bocca della Verita, the lofty campanile of which rises near the Temple of Vesta, on the banks of the Tiber. The large bell has a singularly pure and musical tone, una bella voce, says Theresa.

The weather is perfectly glorious, and the moonlight magnificent. I enjoyed it last evening in company with my countryman, Mr. S——, as we walked in the acacia-alleys round the Colosseum. The moonlight which massed together the lights and shadows, caused these grand ruins to stand forth in all their solemn beauty, from the pale green, delicate foliage with which the spring has surrounded them. The nightingales made the scene vocal with their enchanting songs, whilst the mandoline-players on the other side of the Colosseum, responded by national melodies in finely artistic and tremulous tones. The acacias filled the air with perfume, and we walked on silently and undisturbed by chattering company. It could not have been more beautiful!

And now, before I continue my sketches of the small occurrences of the day, I will present to you, my R——, in its completeness, or at least, in its principal features, the result of my innermost life and research, during these two years of travel, as it, at the present time, reveals itself to me. This will also assist me in all the more firmly fixing it in my own mind. I will call it,

MY RESUME.

If you have accompanied me through the region of the Swiss Alps, then you know that that which I sought for, before every thing else, was the original fountain of my faith, and not mine alone, but of yours also, my R——, that of every one who depends upon an eternal truth, immovable, unchangeable, above the things which change. You know that I came to Switzerland, attracted thither by the hope that I should there be nearer to it, because one of the noblest minds of that country—Alexandre Vinet—had published it in language and sentiment of no common inspiration. The name which he gave to it was not new on the earth. Already Paul (Romans ii. 15) had spoken of it, and after him, Pascal, Rousseau, Schleiermacher, and many others, and they had referred to the conscience, as a primeval-consciousness, an original fountain in the human breast. When the Swiss A. Vinet and Charles Secretan again brought it forward as the highest organ of religious truth, it acquired a new force, and a higher consciousness; but it did not contain any thing new. It was evident to me, that conscience, the most holy portion of the human being, must, if it continued the fountain of truth regarding God—contain also the fountain of truth and certainty in—every thing.

Amidst prayer and labor, amidst conflict in good and in evil (or contradiction,) with men and books, but above all, amidst faithful examination into the depth of my own soul, my view became clear, and I found—that which I shall shortly speak of.

Two great teachers offered themselves as guides to me on my way, and both said: “Trust in me, and thou shalt find the truth and happiness!” And each warned me of the other as misleaders and teachers of error. These were the Catholic and Protestant churches. Both said, “I will lead you to Christ, and through Christ to God!”

The former, the Catholic, showed me, as the means of coming to the acquaintance with the Savior, faith in that church—or in its priesthood, which would one and the same thing—and also good works.

The latter, the Protestant, gave me, as the means for this purpose, the Holy Scriptures, and charged me to have “faith alone.”

I have, in the course of the sketches of my journey, said sufficient about the peculiar merits and deficiencies of both churches—as they have appeared to me—to render it necessary further to touch on this subject, which, in order to be be fully expatiated upon would require more time and a larger capacity than I have at my command. I will take it for granted, my R——, that you, like myself, consider that there ought to be, that there ought to arise, a more perfect, a more universal church, which would, in a higher degree than either of these two, satisfy our innermost need for justice, goodness, truth, unity, perfection.

But what can authorize me, an ephemera of comparatively few years, to criticize these erections of centuries?—to require from these something more than they give? That is the question.

“I cannot help it!” I might reply. “The necessity for it lies within me; it is a thirst after the perfect! God give it to me!———But there is a reason for the thirst, the validity of which no one will deny.

“A life of virtue and happiness—the image of Paradise, which we all, more darkly or more clearly, bear in the depths of our own hearts.”—God's order and kingdom as in heaven so on earth, that is the heavenly view, which compels me, which, once beheld, once comprehended, makes it impossible for me to be satisfied with it in part, with it dim and imperfect—be then this (and so it is) my very dearest self. It is Thou who once revealed as the highest archetype, compellest me to seek, and long, and combat, until I can rest in a world perfected in Thee. It must not, it cannot be otherwise if we will be faithful to the highest within us.

But what authorizes me to assume that this view is the true one?—to make it the final end of my critical inquiry, and of my endeavors? It is the two Christian churches which thus inquire, because in this they are agreed to censure both you and me, if we deviate from, or go beyond their dogmatical doctrines.

What authorizes me to believe in the truth of my own view? In the midst of all the world's errors to believe in the rectitude of what the eye of man can comprehend? I now approach the most innermost! May I only find words rightly to express that which, it seems to me, I have clearly comprehended?

Plato spoke of “a third eye,” which he considered himself to have within him, and which always beheld in every thing its primeval source (idea) and connection. Socrates considered himself to be enlightened and guided by a demon, or higher spirit, which told him what he ought to do or to leave undone. Christian thinkers have called this inner eye and this demon, the rational conscience of the human being. But I will retain the figure presented by Plato, as it renders my view the more intelligible.

I find this “third eye,” with its faculty of discrimination and judgment, to be possessed by all people, and in every age of the world. Above all, I find that mankind has adjudged something to be right, and something to be wrong; something to be good, and something to be evil; something to be lovely, and something to be unlovely. From this proceeds those remarkable accordances amongst all people and in all ages, notwithstanding the varieties which are called forth by the influence of times and circumstances on the development of the inner eye. Above all, I see likewise, that this has enjoined upon mankind to look up to a higher being which decides upon their fate, which decides the fate of nations and individuals, a being to whom they must sacrifice and pray. The Altar is as old as the human dwelling on earth. But this being becomes different to the human eye according as the latter becomes more clear-seeing and as the former reveals himself. Amongst all Christian nations I find a great unity in the comprehension of the Supreme Being, so also in the direction taken by their social laws, their morals and their art. All have for their object the making mankind better and happier. All these peoples acknowledge one Lord and one duty, that of obeying His commands; all have the same purpose on earth and the same hope beyond the grave. They behold evidently the same truth, the same primal view (idea). Whence comes this accordance? The inner eye of the human race has become cleared with these nations, and it was prepared to receive the light, when the light ascended upon the earth.

But as in the bodily eye of man the whole body may be said to be represented,[14] so does this inner eye contain the whole world of the human being; and as the bodily visual nerve proceeds from an “optic-chamber” in the central organ of the head, the brain, in the mysterious interior of which resides a discriminating, judging and law-giving power, so is the visual nerve of the inner eye—Plato's third eye—in connection with God, and beholds the eternal, primal images, as they live in Him and in His kingdom. When this eye, native to the Kingdom of God, turns itself upon earthly things, it involuntarily exercises a primally discriminating, judging and law-giving power. It tries, rejects, approves, or demands something new, something better. It judges according to those eternal, primal images, which it beholds and judges, correctly accordingly as they are clear to its view. Because the eye of the spirit, like that of the body, requires to be educated in order to see correctly. But it is possessed of the faculty for this correct sight. The inner eye is a seeing eye, in the highest sense. It beholds the eternal, the immutable. It is the mirror of the Eternal light.

“Light which enlightens every man that comes into the world.”[15] Light of that light, which was before the world was created, and which came to the earth in order to make it all light, in order to mature it for the Kingdom of Heaven. Thou art my light, primal source of my ability to seek and to find the truth; Thou guidest and enlightenest every man who comes into the world! If I look over the nations of the world, even from the most ancient times, I behold Thee guiding them yet in the morning twilight of the earth; if I look to that which led them onward in cultivation, in humanity, I behold Thee; if I look to the formation of the great communities which call themselves the Christian church, I again behold Thee;—although now darkened by ecclesiastical walls—reflecting the heavenly vision of a divine revelation; if I look down into the depths of my own spirit, and inquire after that which, even from my childhood, taught, enlightened, reproved, admonished and admonishes me to the exercise of my daily individuality, I again find Thee, Thou brightly burning flame, Thou holy, secret fire; source of disquiet and source of heavenly rest, eye of truth, light of the Light of God! Thou dost not control my will, but Thou makest me the judge of it, makest me the judge of my own actions. Silent, but shining like the pillar of fire which guided the children of Israel on their way through the desert, Thou continuest to go before the human race upon its pilgrimage; Thou goest secretly guiding onward every formative work, every work of its genius, and leadest it forward to its goal—perfection. Thus in legislation, morals, social forms, science, art, the church, the state, individual and general life. Primal forms in the Divine and the yearning after His kingdom—intuition of the imperfect, the impulse towards perfection and the necessity for harmony, these are the secret canons and the springs of action in humanity. These compel humanity to seek for the highest, for the perfect in the idea and the reality, and it will attain to no peace, it will attain to no rest until it have worked out into reality every ideal of life and transformed life itself into a kingdom of God. This is the goal. How human beings are to arrive at it depends upon the correctness of their sight and on the purity of their will.

I know very well, every thing which can be said on the imperfection of the human power of vision, of its confusions, errors, &c., as well as all which history and individual experience testify on the subject. But do they not also testify of a more correct, and more lucid, fundamental vision, at the present time? All knowledge, and all higher science, advances upon such a principle. The highest science, that of God and of man, cannot have any other. False tones and dissonances do not prevent the reality of perfect harmony—nay they have a secret reference to them.

If I doubted my own ability to understand the truth, then I must doubt every thing which I see. But I cannot do so, and yet live. I must believe in my own power of discrimination, and I do so, even when I am aware that my view is not wholly correct, and precisely so because I am aware of it. I then have a feeling of, or I see indistinctly something which is more correct, which more closely resembles the primal image. If I do not accept this, I then remain in contradiction with myself and with every thing; and then I find myself in a state of disorder. I must seek after an accordance with my reason, with my heart, with my conscience; this is the primal law of my being. To remain in contradiction, is to remain in hell. The necessity for harmony in myself and in every thing, is an eternal requirement of humanity's highest, imperishable nature. That which I accept as eternal truth, has its foundation in this requirement.

Thus it appears to me, that the facts necessary for the development of human life, are two-fold; God, who above every new age, and every new human soul, speaks anew, “Let there be light!” and the human being—or the humanity, which receives and continues onward the revealed light. Of the innermost organ—the inner eye—I have already said sufficient to explain my meaning; let me now say a few words on the goal which it has in view.

Because, towards this goal, I see every human being, and all nations, from the most ancient times, striving consciously or unconsciously, and all the wise and all the good of the earth have endeavored to lead mankind nearer to it. They have given to it many different names; the most popular in all ages is that of happiness. Prophets, in ecstatic visions, have proclaimed this goal to be a state of virtue, of beauty, and of happiness, a realm of glory and perfection, as well for nature as for humanity; a state, under which every thing was good, a world of harmonies. Christ Jesus called it the kingdom of God. And ever since then, His disciples, consciously or unconsciously, have been endeavoring to introduce it into human life. We, all of us, we who acknowledge ourselves to be of His name, have learned in the prayer of prayers, that of our Lord, to pray for the coming of this kingdom on earth, as it is in heaven. And nevertheless, its image is still so dimly comprehended, both by the visible and the invisible church of Christ!

The Catholic church says that it comprehends this goal; but then it separates it from the actual, from the general life, and ever more and more incloses it within the symbolic institution, which it calls the church. She forgets more and more—at least in Rome—that symbols, dead works and ceremonies, are not the chief thing. She takes the shell for the kernel. She builds beautiful churches and permits humanity to decline.

The Protestant church, which, with infinite energy, broke the shell of forms and dead works, in order to come at life and truth, established for its church a principle of inexpressible depth: “faith, alone makes holy;” established the right of free inquiry. But whilst renewing the religious consciousness and striking deeper into the primal relationship of God with man, its view also became one-sided and its invisible church was not able to retain the conception of the kingdom of God.[16]

It reconducted the spirit, indeed, to the depths of religious and moral consciousness, but it did not see the tenor of the whole, and—it does not see it even at the present time. It remained faithful to its glorious principle of the right of free inquiry, on the ground of the ability of the human being to comprehend the truth, and on the ground of the enlightening operation of the Holy Spirit, on every honestly-seeking mind. Perhaps it could not be so during the enfranchised adolescence—if I may be allowed the expression—of the human race, as many occurrences, during the earliest times of the Reformation, seem to demonstrate. Mankind had so long walked in the leading-strings of the church, that they had not yet learned to advance independently, guided by the light of the gospel, in the footsteps of the Saviour. The church, even, which protested against Rome, made itself the guardian of the mind, fettered it anew to the letter of the word, and forbade the use of thought—or, at least, the teaching of any doctrine which was not conformable with her own established dogmas. She based them upon the word of God in the Holy Scriptures, but she forbade their interpretation in any way different to her own, and so it is, at the present day, in many countries. Perhaps it was necessary in the earliest times, but——now? She has honestly—even as the Catholic church in its time—fulfilled her mission of educating the people by instruction and preaching; but her power over human souls will decrease more and more, if she herself do not more deeply comprehend her own part of the object which it is designed to accomplish, that of placing every human being in a position of self-responsibility to God, and to preach his kingdom: not a something only beyond the grave, in heaven itself, but as a something which is to be worked out upon earth. For this purpose, it is necessary that she do not cast aside those means which develop the freedom and independence of the human mind. She must not be afraid of freedom, but make it a familiar guest on earth, as it is in heaven.

Why should she fear? Has she not, during the three centuries in which she has taught and labored, seen the nations favorably develop themselves in their inner life and outward prosperity? Has she not also seen persons who hold themselves apart from the outer church, devote themselves to labor for the kingdom which the Saviour will found upon earth? Does she not behold an improvement in prisons, the naked clothed, the hungry fed, neglected children cared for and educated? Does she not behold domestic life purified, sanctified, and civil freedom extended more and more to the children of the land? Does she not behold science and art, and, above all, literature—that great popular rostrum in the forum of the world—become servants of that kingdom, and that the time of the silent sufferers is approaching its end?

If any one looks with unprejudiced eye at the condition of those countries where the word of God is freely preached, where the Holy Scriptures are familiar to the hand of every man, and free inquiry the prerogative of every rational being, and then compares it with the condition of those countries in which education is fettered by the priesthood, where the Holy Scriptures are forbidden or inaccessible to the people, who cannot even read them, where the people are ignorant, or taught only blindly to obey the priests and the temporal government! Let him compare Switzerland with Italy, Prussia with Austria, England with France, North America with South America! In which is there most morality, most order? In which is there the largest amount of prosperity, spiritual and temporal? In which are popular revolutions least to be dreaded? In which are the States themselves most secure, calm, and, at the same time, most progressive towards the object of all government, the general common weal? Is it not in the countries where freedom of conscience and freedom of citizenship are in the possession of the people? Where the people themselves may choose their own faith and their own laws; where the human being is placed in immediate contact with the highest ideas, and made responsible for his own choice and his own actions? The testimony of history, then, seems to admonish us to follow the example of Him who called the poor and the unlearned fishermen to be the apostles of His kingdom, and who calls us all to continue His work of liberation.

“But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away.” Thus, also with the two great Christian churches,[17] they will cease from their disseverance and enmity when they arrive at a deeper comprehension of their oneness in Christ, and of their one common object. In this future, higher, universal church, the eye which turns to God shall no longer find its view circumscribed by barriers of human construction. It will have free range over the treasures of God's revelation, it will freely accept out of the riches of the older as well as of the younger church—those garnered up and those newly-acquired—and from the inexhaustible wealth of the Gospels—every thing which belongs to the perfecting of the order, of the harmony which it beholds—in God. In this church, none will be called heretics or unchristian, who with mind and will labor for the well-being of mankind, according to the will of Christ. Catholics and Unitarians will, whilst they live for the object for which He lived and died, be called his true disciples. This church will not confound the religious science and the religious life. If even the so-called Atheist performed the deeds of the good Samaritan, or had the courage to combat for the truth, he also will hear the words of the Master—

“Thou art not far from the kingdom of God!”

With Christ as example, with His Holy Spirit as teacher, and with the coming of the kingdom of God on earth as it is in heaven, as its object, this universal church will, nevertheless, not arrogate to itself the authority of ordaining, at any period, that which shall be valid forever. She knows that she must grow and be perfected in the wisdom of Christ. She will, from century to century, at the universal synods,—and by the true representatives of the Christian communities—consider anew her faith and her life, and measure them by that of the eternal Archetype, and by the light of Divine Truth. She will, each time, like the elders of Israel on the Jordan, erect memorials which shall say—“Hitherto God has helped us,” and establish rules for the next annual meeting. She will not fear, nor yet fall into error, because she will never lose sight of the Divine Teacher, and will hold fast by His words addressed to the assembled disciples:—

“The Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost, whom the Father will send in my name, He shall teach you all things, and bring all things to your remembrance, whatsoever I have said to you;——He shall lead you into all truth. And, lo, I am with you alway, even to the end of the world.”

But until this true universal church acquires strength, her great sections may continue, if they will only each of them more fully develop their innermost truth, develop their life. I do not know, but it appears to me, that the religious life is most awake, is most vital, in those Protestant countries where the Protestant and Catholic churches stand free and equally protected, side by side, as in England, Germany, and in Switzerland. There arises then, not unfrequently, between their leaders, a noble emulation, upon purely Christian grounds. What great individual character, and what beautiful institutions have not the two ecclesiastical faiths given birth to especially in England and Germany!

Individual persons have, in all Christian churches, attained to the same degree of human excellence. But in the free country, in the free community, the number of these persons is great; in those which are not free, it is few. This constitutes the difference between people and people.

And now—Good night, my R——!

May 18th.—The interest of Rome increases with every day that the stranger lingers there. Now, beautiful works are discovered by him in the churches, or in the streets and squares. The splendid villas, with their grounds, which the grandees so hospitably throw open to the visits of strangers; scenes from the life of the people, or from the life of the church, furnish increasing subjects of enjoyment or observation, and material for the diary of such at least, who, like myself, keep one.

Although formative art—especially the antique—acquired for me in Rome a higher significance, as the attempt of the human mind to express in beautiful forms its own advancing clearness of the ideal; the youthful view which the human race took of the Divine,

Highest joy and deepest sorrow,
In the heavens and on the earth;

yet I shall not say much on the works of art which remain to me as revelations of the second order. They perpetuate for the beholder or observer the great moments of life—its harmonies or discords. This seems to me to constitute their immortal value. They give also a kind of graduated scale of the popular culture or view of life, from one age to another, and this is of great importance.

I can see that the conception which the Greeks had of the Divinity did not reach to the highest requirements of humanity, from the very forms of their gods. Minerva, Juno, Venus, are cold beauties, without sympathy for humanity, and Father Jupiter, with his low forehead and the bushy wig, is a respectable Pacha of confined intellect, but as different to the ideal of the Father as presented glorified in Christ, as heaven is from earth. And when it is said that a man died happy if he could only for once behold the countenance of the Olympian Jove, as presented in the statue by Phidias in Elis, it must have been said as a compliment to the sculptor, or the Greeks' claim to happiness was not great. The Apollo of the Vatican alone, seems to me so beautiful and noble, that I rejoice that such a form does not move upon the earth, because, in that case, people might be tempted to idolatry. How far these gods fall short of being moral ideals, is proved by the traditions of their actions. One need only recall those of Apollo and Hermes, Minerva and Arachne, and the love stories of Jupiter!——And they well know it, the later great teachers, Pythagoras, Socrates, and Plato. Their conception of the Divine was of a much higher standard.

But I will now, speak of that which I have lately seen—on the earth; first in the churches, these treasure-chambers of the Christian life, which arose in beauty upon the ravaged, desolated field of heathen Rome, and which will still remain as beautiful monuments of Christian art and science, even if it should no longer be the Pontifical capital. I advise you, my R——, to see, in the church of San Pietro de Vincoli, the Moses of Michael Angelo, a remarkable figure, strong and full of deep earnestness, a figure worthy both of the Prophet and the Artist. Moses has descended from Sinai, filled with the divine energy of the presence and word of God, and beholds the children of Israel dancing around the golden calf which they had made during his absence. He sits down, astonished and angry, and plucks at his beard. All this appears to me expressed in the figure.

In the beautiful church Maria Sopra Minerva, half in the Gothic style, you should see, near the altar, an excellent Christ, also by Michael Angelo, and the beautiful recumbent figure of Catharine of Sienna, with its expression of eternal peace. See also in the church of St. Cecilia, in Trastevere, the statue of the youthful martyr, lying as her body was found in the oldest catacomb, as also the chamber, a bath-room, still ornamented with valuable mosaics, in which she suffered martyrdom. To this church belongs a convent containing upwards of sixty nuns; they live under strict rule and occupy themselves with music and the preparation of priests' and church ornaments. I heard them sing an erudite and elaborate mass with perfect accuracy but—without soul.

In the little hidden church of Maria della Pace, you must see the Sibyls of Raphael, one of the most beautiful, grand compositions of this master. The Sibyls are of different ages, but all listen to angels who are whispering to them the words which they are to write. The composition is full of life, beauty, and nobility. These Sibyls remind me of a Sibylla which you ought to see, if you come to Rome. It is by Guercino and is in the museum of the Capitol, a figure of more solemn earnestness than those of Raphael, but with as profound a gaze, as nobly beautiful, as truly turned away from the world and fixed alone upon the eternal truth. It is known under the name of the Sibylla Pensica.

Amongst the sculptures of the museum of the Capitol, I especially remember the Faun of Praxiteles and the Dying Gladiator, the former as the representation of the most charming enjoyment of the repose of earthly life, that il dolce far niente which is so dear to the inhabitants of the South; the latter as a type of the highest disgust of life, the gladiator is wounded to death; he has nothing to look forward to, he has no hope, he wishes nothing but—to die. Silent and gloomy he looks down towards the earth; he has no friend and no God; the people exult over his sufferings. He knows it, and is alone, alone. Thus, in the old time, he was seen to fall and die in the circus of the Colosseum.

The so-called Capitoline Venus has her particular niche in the museum, and you must pay to see her, but she is worth the cost.

The ancient bronze figure of the She-Wolf which gave suck to Romulus and Remus is the most interesting art-curiosity in this museum.

Whilst I am in the capital of art I will say a few words about the artists whom I have latest visited, and their studios.

The English sculptor Gibson is especially happy in imitating the antique. His figures of Pschyé have a sylphized beauty, which places them, in this respect, before the antique. But his most interesting work in my eyes, is his pupil, a young American lady, Miss Hosmer. After five years' instruction from him, this gifted girl has developed a perfectly peculiar and many-sided talent. Her many perfected statues prove this, for instance, her Hecuba, her Daphne, her Sleeping Girl—a figure intended for a sepulchral monument to the memory of a beautiful young English lady, Miss Falcony, who, when riding one day, on the banks of the Tiber, the ground suddenly giving way under her horse's feet, she was drowned; but above all is her peculiar talent shown by her Puck, the king of all naughty little boys, whom one could kiss and take a fancy to at once, as he sits there on his throne of acanthus leaves and mushrooms, and seems to throw a lizard at you. Take care! He is so full of life that—who knows if he be not actually alive?

Miss Hosmer has already executed seven copies of this charming impish boy, and has yet orders for more. She intends to make a counterpart to Puck, in the form of a girl which shall be called Topsy, after the little African child in Mrs. Stowe's excellent story of “Uncle Tom's Cabin.” Miss Hosmer has still her atelier near to that of her master. He seems to rejoice like a father over her. She is twenty-three years of age, and has a small but well-formed figure, with an expression of energy and health; she has also that pretty, round, animated countenance, the glance and arch smile of which have something of little Puck in them. She seems happy and full of the freshness of life, and will dedicate her whole life to art.

“Only take care,” said I, “that you don't fall in love!”

“Oh, I have already gone through that,” said she, smiling, with an expression of Puck-like character, “all that is over!”

If I mistake not, this Puck-like character is her own; of course, in a proper degree. But, indeed, without something of the Puck and a great deal of energy, a young woman could not have advanced to—where she is.

Another young American lady, Miss Lander, from Salem, in Massachusetts, is studying also the plastic art in Rome, and for the present, these two are the only female students in this branch of art. Miss Lander came to Rome as the pupil of the distinguished American sculptor, Crawford, but since his tragical death—by cancer of eye—she has worked independently. She has less talent, perhaps, and less originality than Miss Hosmer; but her subjects are noble, and the expression of her heads at once pure and great. Thus, in her young Siberian, and in the bust of the American novelist, Hawthorne, with the striking head. Such an expression as is there given, proceeds from the soul.

A third young American lady in Rome, confers honor on the new world, by her unusual scientific culture; this is the astronomer, Miss Mitchell. She is already known in Europe, as well as in America, by an astronomical discovery, and she has come hither to acquire knowledge regarding the observatory of Rome, and to communicate the same to her native land. The Jesuits who have the care and management of the Observatory, as well as of all other scientific institutions in the states of the church, have, with great liberality and politeness, thrown it open to her, and given her all the information she required. She found every thing connected with it in the utmost order and perfection. The gentlemen, the Jesuits, are distinguished for their profound knowledge of the positive sciences.

It was a pleasure to me to hear this young American lady speak of her father as her teacher; and, as the one who inspired her with an interest for science. Her affection for her father was so great, that she feared lest this interest should decrease, if he were no longer able to share it with her.

At the Italian Rosetti's, I saw a great wealth of works of art, beautiful, but not of the highest beauty. Esmeralda and her; goat; a little Flora, from everyday life; Mad Ophelia; a young woman in the slave-market, are all figures of much grace and perfection. Most original, and not the least beautiful, is a group, of an elderly gentleman of noble appearance, who raises by the hand a poor lad who is sitting astride on a curbstone. The boy is Rosetti himself when child, and this group is dedicated to his benefactor.

At the American, Mr. Moser's, a number of Indian subjects may be seen, with well-formed figures; but have seen more beautiful countenances amongst the Indians at the sources of the Mississippi. His Pocahontas, standing in her picturesque Indian costume, looking down thoughtfully at a little cross, is excellently conceived. The most beautiful of all his statues seemed to me to be his Rebecca at the Well, and the Goddess of Silence.

In the atelier of Mr. Rogers, another American artist, I admired the pictures in bas-relief, from the history of Columbus, intended for the gates of the new Capitol in Washington,—a work similar to that on the gates of the Baptistery at Florence, but original in regard to the subject, and treated with great knowledge and artistic skill.

But now enough of artistic matters and studios, for the present.

Amongst the various palaces, with their gardens, I will merely mention that which is now possessed by the Corsini family, and which formerly belonged to the Swedish Queen Christina, during her residence in Rome. Her bed-room alone,—the room in which she died,—is still kept in the state it was when she occupied it. The pictures on the walls, and which were executed for her, are an extraordinary roccoco. One sees, side by side, pictures of saints, and unclothed female figures, amongst satyrs. But in this woman's soul, was an extraordinary mixture of small and great, of high and low. One picture in the room, of very mediocre-quality, or rather below mediocrity, represents her baptism in St. Peter's after her renunciation of the Protestant faith of her father. It represents a herald blowing a trumpet, to proclaim the remarkable transaction to the world.

Sweden has to thank Queen Christina for having given, in that country, a new impulse to scientific life. In Rome, also, she distinguished herself for her interest in the sciences. In this respect, she retained a sort of grandeur, and a sort of estimation, but of friends she had none, and the scanty, or rather miserable way, in which she rewarded, by her will, her faithful servants, “speedily dried their tears for her death,”—as says one of them in her naïve narrative. She departed to the other life without having communicated to any one that which existed in her own soul,—silent and incomprehensible even to herself. She resembled those meteors, brilliant but unproductive, which now and then astonish our gaze, as they speed through their eccentric career, giving us little light, and a great deal of puzzling of brains.

The garden which belongs to the palace is large and beautiful, laid out in the old French style. The roses bloomed luxuriantly, the fountains played in clear jets, and the nightingales sang deliciously in the groves. So was it when Queen Christina walked there. But could the cruel murderess of Monaldeschi ever enjoy this beauty and this peace?

Amongst my more extensive excursions, I was most interested by that to Ostia. The excavations of the old, long-buried city, are now actively going forward. Whole stretches of tombs, beautiful mosaic floors in bath-rooms and private dwelling-houses, are laid open; they also have found statues. A remarkably lovely female statue of white marble, was found lately in a bath-room; she now stood there, beautifully draped, but without the head. All excavations must cease with the end of this month, for then comes malaria, with its train of fevers, snakes, and musquitos, and man must fly.

We dined at the Castle Fusano, and were delighted by the view of the sea, which, lying open, without islands or rocks, rolled its foaming billows towards the sand-hills of the shore, which keep increasing in the mean time. Poor fishermen, of a wild appearance, dwell along the shore, in miserable huts. The Campagna, between Ostia and Rome, possesses but few remains of antiquity, but it affords splendid views of the Tiber, and of park-like meadows, grazed by vast herds of cattle and sheep. The Roman oxen are the most stately animals of their race. They pace along, with their lofty, beautifully-curved horns, in perfectly senatorial grandeur, and represent, in their way, the dignity of the old Roman Senate, far more worthily than the present, which represents it only in name.

Whit-Sunday, May 23d.—The day began with brilliant sunshine, the firing of cannon, and the ringing of the bells of the churches in the city. In Sweden, they say that the sun dances this day along the sky, and that angels travel up and down, between heaven and earth, the whole of the time from Easter to Whitsuntide.

In Rome this time is occupied by many ecclesiastical ceremonies. In one church the cattle are sprinkled with holy water. They are brought up for this purpose, ornamented with red ribbons, roses and various kinds of finery, in front of the church gate, whence they are sprinkled by a holy Father—and it is believed that they thence obtain the especial blessing of health and good luck. In another church, wax candles, silk, wool, silver, and gold and many other things which serve for the purposes of the church, or for clerical garments, are blessed and consecrated in the same manner.

These symbolic transactions express the befitting thought; all existences and all things ought by religious intuition, to be consecrated to the service of God. But man stops short at the symbolical act. And the church or the hierarchy, which here sets itself in the place of the Holy One, is, besides, any thing but sacred and sanctifying. That which I heard of the belief, or rather the disbelief, and of the morality, or rather immorality, of the priests, especially of the higher priest- hood here, and in other places in Italy, is by no means edifying, and in certain cases their influence in families has been dreadful. But I will not repeat what I have been told; for I myself, have not seen any thing of the kind. Still I have seen, and I see every day, that these teachers and leaders of the people, who sprinkle men and things with holy water, do very little to make them better or more fitted in any way for the kingdom of God. They sprinkle holy water and make the sign of the cross also over sin and wickedness, and take care that the church itself, by outward splendor and pomp, may be, as far as possible, separated from the poor, sinful, human throng. She, the church, does not take heed for their education—but on the contrary labors against it—and looks after their daily life merely in so far as to render them submissive. I do not believe that this is saying too much as regards the general character of the Roman Catholic[18]—the Italian church—whatever exceptions may and must be made for noble individuals, as well amongst the elder as the younger Italian priesthood. Vincenzio Gioberti and Abbé Lambruschini are prelates who cannot be reproached with want of zeal for the elevation of the people by means of education. But their words and their labors, have run counter to the Pontifical chair, and they have been able to do nothing.

Not long since, during one of my morning rambles on the Corso, I went into one of the churches of which that great thoroughfare has so many. Here I found from fifty to sixty boys sitting in a circle in the great aisle, to whom a young priest was giving instruction. He walked backwards and forwards, talking the while, but as if to himself, and lifting his black cap every time he mentioned the name of Jesus, or His Mother. None of the boys paid any attention to him, and he, on his part, did not take the slightest notice of their talking, laughing, and playing all kinds of tricks amongst themselves. Sometimes he stopped before a boy, and asked him a question, the boy looked confused, the priest answered the question himself, and then continued his promenade. Thus the lesson went on for about an hour, till the bell rang for Il vespro, when all the boys jumped up, dropped upon their knees and repeated, all with one voice, the Litany to Maria, with its forty or fifty poetical cognomens for the Mother of Jesus, thus:—

Speculum justitiæ,
Sedes sapientiæ,
Rosa mystica,
Turris Davidica,
Turris eburnea,
Domus aura,
Federis arca,
Janua cœli,
Stilla matutino,
Salus infirmorum
Refugium peccatorum,
Auxilium Christianorum,
Regina angleorum,
Regina sanctorum omnium, and so on.

This little bit of early education may be taken as typical of the whole instructional system of the Romish church.

I was witness this afternoon to another scene which belongs to this system. As I was resting in my quiet room, after a visit to Maria Sopra Minerva, where—in parenthesis, be it said—I heard an excellent sermon by a Carmelite monk, on the rights of intelligence and its place in human life, when I was aroused by the sound of a strong voice, which seemed to be preaching and exhorting fervently. I rose, threw a shawl over my head and went out; the moonlight was splendid, and it and the powerful voice of the preacher, drew me to the foot of the Tarpeian rock. Here I found a concourse of country-people assembled in an open space, mostly men, about two hundred in number, whose heads never seemed to have come in contact with a comb, and this crowd, from which proceeded an offensive odor, stood listening to a monk who with the voice of Stentor, exclaimed, that “his heart was full of love to them all, that he desired to embrace them all, and carry them all bodily into the bosom of the holy church. But as this however would require the strength of a Samson, and he had it not, therefore he embraced them with his heart, with his good-will, bade them respond to, and follow him to—the Saviour.”

After these words, rhetorically expressed, but with little emphasis, he took up a crucifix, raised it aloft, and went, attended by two priests with candles, singing hymns, at the head of the crowd, which followed him, like a flock of sheep. I followed also. The procession proceeded in the moonlight night, to a small, very old church, dedicated to St. George, where lights were burning on the altar, and a priest stood ready to address the people. I seated myself, and he preached about true repentance, with very many striking and very intelligible illustrations, exhorting to confession—“honest, sincere confession”—“the father-confessor would, every day from this time, and this evening also, be ready to receive confession in this church, and to grant absolutions”—and he closed his discourse with a powerful representation of heaven and hell, which he screamed forth with all his might, with great gesticulation, and a strong voice. The audience, these two or three hundred men and youths, more like savages and robbers than Christian people, listened nevertheless with deep silence, and all united in singing the Litany after the sermon.

But I must ask myself, what is the use of a few segregated good sermons; what is the use of these spiritual draughts of the net, when the education of the people is neglected, and when the government of the people and management of the country is such as the condition of this crowd indicates? What can be the use of one hour's confession, admonition and absolution during a life-time devoid of spiritual light or care of the body, a life without humanizing and ennobling influences?

A noble-minded lady, an artist and a Dane, who has resided here for some years, and who spends her summers in the small towns on the hills round Rome, has described to me the poverty there, and the filthiness, the concomitant of poverty—as a something beyond all conception. The people are famished, and—beg; yet they are naturally gentle and good-hearted. The pleasures which are accessible to the people in the Papal capitol, for example, the Tombola, the lottery which is going forward incessantly, and is continually announced in shops and places of refreshment, are not of an improving, but rather of a deteriorating character. Gaming is also a principal amusement of the people at the present time; one sees, sitting in open places, men and boys, playing with dirty packs of cards, or with their fingers, the game of Morra, which however is forbidden. Nevertheless, spite of so many brutifying influences, I cannot but continually admire the natural gentleness and educazione of this people, and how undisturbedly one can go about in Rome, into all quarters, and at every time of the day, even amidst the greatest throngs of people. If you speak kindly to the Italian he will answer in the same manner; he faithfully keeps any agreement made with him; nor have I ever, without any found him fraudulent or difficult to deal with. I could wish that men in our northern capitol behaved towards women with the regard and true politeness which they here always meet with. I have never once witnessed here any instance of incivility or rude behavior from a man to a woman—not even amongst the very poorest people. On my little promenades on the banks of the Tiber, La Ripetta, I have more than once seen, in the evening, young girls—sometimes barefooted—dancing together the Soldarella, or a gallopade; the men walked past, or occupied themselves with their various callings in the neighborhood, but on no occasion have I seen any of them disturb, or even talk to the dancing girls. And here, upon the Tarpeian rock, where occasionally on holiday evenings, the people dance to the mandolin or violin; the men dance with the women, all are well-dressed, and their propriety of manner and behavior are remarkable. One would say that in this people there is a natural refinement—at least outwardly—in the relationship between the sexes. How amiable and estimable would not this people be, if only—you know.

The month of May in Rome is a month of enchanting beauty. The light, the air, the verdure, the flowers,—what luxury of beauty and delight! The affluence of the country overflows even in the city; there is a luxurious abundance of vegetables and spring fruits. One sees the people, young and old, eating salad, peas, or fennel. It is said that for five bajocci, an Italian can be/ tolerably well supplied for the day. Bread and ricotta,—a kind of savory new-milk cheese,—and vegetables, are very reasonable. Hence, also, the Roman tendency for far niente, and his aversion to manual labor. He has also his pride in this. Sono Italienissimo perche sono Romano, says even the street-boy, as he throws over his shoulder, like a toga, a ragged piece of linen, or of a coverlet, and scorns to labor in the earth. Thus, in ancient times, the lower class of the Romans desired from their rulers, as at the present day, merely panem et circenses. There is now, however, an increasing middle class which requires something more.

But I will now speak of the month of May in Rome.

For some years, this month has been especially dedicated to the Virgin Mary by the Romish church, and they preach only about her in the churches,—even on this day,—Whitsunday. I was curious to hear what they could say about the humble mother of our Lord, who, in the sacred histories, keeps ever in the background, behind her divine Son; and I went, therefore, in the morning, to the church of Jesuits, “Chiesa di Gesu e Maria.” It was crowded with people, the greater part of whom were on their knees. The church was tastefully decorated with flowers, amongst which were bouquets of burning lights. The music was of a peculiarly tender, soothing character, delightful as a mother's care. I obtained a place between two elegantly-dressed ladies, who had an amiable pleasure in allowing me to accompany, from their mass-books, the church prayers and singing. I could not prevent myself experiencing an impression so sweet, and at the same time so pure, that I could not but ask myself, “Is the Maria worship of the Catholic church reprehensible, excepting in its excess and want of judgment? Should not the image of the God-inspired mother,—even as Eve, the first mother, is seen listening to the inspiration of the evil-spirit (the spirit of self), should not Mary, the second mother, thus be seen listening to the inspiration of the Holy Spirit?—ought not the image of ‘the mother and the child,’ which is reproduced in every Catholic church, become a type to the female sect—the educator of the child? and ought not the church very justly to devote some of its festival days to the contemplation of this deep, primeval relationship?” The whole of this day's worship breathed the sanctifying influence of the good mother into the soul. It affected me profoundly, beneficially, delightfully, until the preacher mounted the tribune.[19] He was a preacher of no ordinary fervor or talents, but instead of devoting them to the sacred relationship of which I felt that this worship aimed at the expression,—he employed them in setting forth the miracles, the conversions, &c., which the Holy Virgin is said to have worked, of late, through her images—the medallions of L'Immaculata—and by other outward means. This sermon was a perfect farce, and the principal actor in the piece was the priest himself, who wound up with great theatrical pathos, as he exhorted all to fall upon their knees and call upon “the mother of God!”

It cannot be denied, but that heathen polytheism still exists amongst this people, and hangs as a drag upon its religious and ecclesiastical life. It drags down divine to physical representations, and fills the earth with dead images and superstition. Nevertheless, it is also true—and, in some respects consolatory—that the ideals both of the images and the prayers, have become purified, are of a higher class. People sacrifice no longer to impure gods and goddesses, but seek favor from the pure and the holy—in what manner is another question—and the festivals of the Romish church, as they are now celebrated, are innocent and beautiful in comparison with the Saturnalia and Lupercalia of ancient Rome, with the worship in the temples of Cybele and Venus.

May 24th.—I paid a visit to Gibson's atelier in the morning. He was alone, and I enjoyed great pleasure in the calm contemplation of his statues, and from my conversation with him. He had just finished the model of his Bacchus from the antique of the Vatican. He took me into the room where it stood alone, a noble, beautiful figure, a copy of which ought to stand in—all wine vaults. Because this Bacchus is not a drunken demi-god, as we in the north picture this Greek deity—but a gentle teacher, a lover of who, with his head crowned with vine-leaves and everlasting flowers, presents the wine-cup to humanity, whilst he says, “Enjoy the gift of the Immortals, but do not abuse it!”

Gibson agreed with me, that the highest object of art, is to present the ideals of life in beautiful forms.

Miss Hosmer was not at home. She has given me a good photograph of her little Puck, which I shall take with me to Sweden.

I have now told you so much about Roman affairs, churches, priests, artists, &c., that you will have patience to hear a little about my own private life. You may, perhaps, have observed that I now say we. The reason of this is, that I have frequently made my little excursions in company with my friendly countryman Mr. S——, that I have made some acquaintance in my lofty abode on the Tarpeian Rock, where, for some weeks, have been living two agreeable young ladies, now my friends. The one is a blonde, with an exterior and bearing as proud as if she were Queen Elizabeth of England, but with the heart and disposition of the gentlest woman. The other is a German, a charming brunette, an actual Psyché-form, with chestnut-brown locks falling around a child-like, pretty, but pale countenance, with an expression of melancholy and goodness, and beautiful eyes, with a wonderfully deep glance. This young lady is distinguished amongst her friends by a multitude of names, “Puss,” “Puck,” “Psyché,” &c. I call her, the little Tedesca, because, the deep romantic spirit of her father-land lives in her. She is father and motherless, and has come to Italy for the restoration of her health, and will probably become my daughter, during the summer in Sorrento, whither I propose going on account of the baths. These young girls look very grave and dignified in the world, but they have between themselves many a merry little scheme; they are witty, sarcastic, and laugh at the whole world.

They now belong to my family-life on this Capitoline rock.

Of my life in society, I need merely mention one evening, when the Grand-Duchess Helena, a little inquisitive, I believe, as to the result of my retraite in the convent, sent for me to visit her. Taking me then aside she inquired what discoveries I had made, or what I had gained during my conventual trial.

“Now confess, confess a little to me!” she said, with charming curiosity.

I told her candidly, the impression which this time had produced upon me. The observations which she herself made on the subject of confession and absolution, I shall not tell you, because she expressly said:

“Don't write down for others, what I have now said to you!”

But nevertheless, I must express my sincere admiration of the pure feeling and the sure tact of this princess. And as regards confession, I must still add, that it belongs to the most ancient usages of the Waldenses church. People confess to the Barbes, from the requirement of the soul, and from old custom, and receive from them counsel and consolation; but for absolution in the sense of the Roman Catholic church, there is nothing to be said. And if the teachers of the church in general, were brought up to become the counselors and healers of the souls, like these ancient Barbes, and if the Catholic priests of the present day, collectively regarded this their vocation, with that earnestness that some of them do, then might the custom of confession return, perhaps of itself, into the Protestant church, in a purified, evangelical form, and many a troubled and sorely tempted soul might find beneficial guidance and tranquillity!

Another incident in my private life is, that I have brought my work, “Father and Daughter,” to a close. I have never written any thing so easily and so continuously; the book has, as it were, made itself. True it is, that I had for a long time carefully perfected it in my own mind. The last pages only, I found it necessary to write more than once. The ending would not make itself. At length, however, it succeeded last night. My candle burned dimly, but there was light in my soul. I knew that I had completed a good work, and I thanked God.

And now, before I leave Rome, which will be tomorrow—probably forever—I will take a last glance at the three-thousand-year city of the world,—the Sibyl, to whom I came to learn the runes of the past and the future. I have already said enough about her brightening vision, her ascending inner life, spite of the interval of dark centuries and terrible desolations, but not of the vision which she now beholds, of the confession which she now inscribes upon the Sibylline leaves.———

There was a time—now ten years since—when the Pope no longer dwelt in the pontifical city; when a Triumvir sat in his place as ruler, and the Roman people gathered around him; when men and women became the willing instruments of that object and that realm—which was proclaimed as that of Italy, as especially that of Rome, the centre and heart of Italy. What would they? The same as in this moment of the spirit's rising, the whole Italy, and one united, free and noble Italy, under free institutions, represented by the free sons of the country, who can lead it forward in morality, laws, in all institutions which have for their object the highest well-being of the people. Even Mazzini entertained a high moral ideal of government, and although he did not allow a place to religion and the church, he nevertheless acknowledges the hero of Christendom as the leader and the teacher on the path of freedom. The Republic was to him the only form in which the ideal of government could be realized; freedom from foreign power, and the dominion of the Pope, the first condition of the regeneration of Italy. Insurrection in all points in Italy, was to him the principal means. “Wherever only three persons were together, they should unite themselves to protest again the dominion of the Pope and foreign intervention in the affairs of Italy, unite themselves to recognize the Mazzinian principles of brotherly love, humanity and patriotism, and thus should, from a hundred or a thousand of small points, arise one great, united whole.”

By means of his personal character and his eloquence, by that which his view contained of the actually moral, just, and noble, Mazzini wrought up to enthusiasm many people, as well in Rome, as in the whole of Italy. Few men have had more fervent adherents! From all that I have heard of him, I believe that he merited this devoted regard, from the purity of his character, and the firmness of his will. His ideal of life and government was, in its moral standard, not unlike that of Gioberti and Cesare Balbo, and other distinguished sons and daughters of Italy, but he differed from these in other points, and especially in the question of the violent measures he would make use of. Mazzini became dominant in Rome, and the old martial spirit of the city seemed to reawaken. It fought an heroic fight, against far superior armies, during eight months. The Marchioness d'Ossoli,—the American Margaret Fuller—has preserved in her letters most precious memorials of that time in Rome, when “Mazzini never slept, but never for a moment wavered, when his hand burned with fever, but his glance was steady, his whole being firm and calm, when young men were famished or died at their posts rather than yield them up, when mothers in the hospitals kissed their sons' amputated limbs, when women emulated men in the joy of sacrifice for the fatherland, when men felt themselves tempted to doubt of a Providence, when all this love and all this sacrifice proved to be in vain.” For they were in vain! Rome was subdued, hostile armies entered victoriously, the Triumvirs fled, the Pope returned.

But he returned no longer as the mild, the peace and pardon-proclaiming Pio Nono. He came as a stern, and, in many cases, an inexorable judge. Was it he himself, or his councilor and minister Antonelli—I will believe the latter—who caused that, of all the Italian States, the States of the church was the most severe in its punishment of the political offenders; but in any case, it seems to me that the greatest responsibility of this falls upon the Pope. It would have become him, as Christ's representative on earth, rather to die than to let thousands of men perish, or be imprisoned for his sake. From this time, 1848, Pio Nino has remained tranquil in the chair of St. Peter, but he is no longer loved, and the belief in him is—past. And what, indeed, has he done to regain it?

When he ascended the pontifical throne, he promised amnesty—and that promise he kept,—organization of the municipal body; representation of the provinces; improvement in education; conventual reform; revision of the laws; railways; increased liberty of the press; a council of ministers; city-guard, and many other liberal institutions. After ten years' government, what of all this has been accomplished? One little railway, that to Frascati;—on the road between Civita Vecchia and Rome, there are still occasional robberies of the diligences;—some few insignificant conventual reforms,[20] as I have been told; of the rest they still talk, but nobody believes that any thing will be done. The public voice cannot demand them, because it has no organ, either in the Council or in the Senate—the members of which are nominated by the Pope or Press. Thought is under a diving-bell, as well in Rome as in Naples. The only journal of Rome is pontifical; and the introduction of foreign books is under strict surveillance. I have not been able by any means to receive from Paris even a single copy of so Christianly liberal a paper as the Revue Chrétienne. For the rest, it is not I who can or will condemn the Papal management of the States of the Church; but what I have seen of the condition of the people leads me to believe the statement of the conscientious and devout son of the church, Count Cesare Balbo, in his Summario della Storia d'Italia, p. 452.

“Rome and Modena, ill-reinstated in the year 1814, have with each succeeding year become worse governed. Wretched police and persecutions have been common to both states; in the Papal especially, financial disorder, foreign arms, ecclesiastical government in the most temporal affairs, result in a position in which the Pontifical rule loses all its dignity. Every one who contemplates and compares the condition of the various Italian states, must clearly see that if any actual improvement is to take place, if any great impulse is to arise for the advancement (progress) of Italy, it must come from Piedmont. The other states have—even in the best which they possess—remained stationary. On the contrary, Piedmont has, even in the worst which she possesses, made an ascending, improving movement, and no further advance can be expected but through such a movement.”

The above was written in 1851.


The ancient Sybils wrote, as people know, in a somewhat different style, and there has been a great deal of brain-puzzling to discover the meaning of their oracular sentences. However, in this, all are agreed, that they, the Sybils, every one of them proclaimed, “One God and one judgment of the world.” And this enunciation I also seem to read as the new written leaves of the Roman Sybil.

"The old must pass away or rise again, transformed, glorified. The Phenix must ascend from her pyre into the morning light of a higher, better world,—or pass away in its ashes——The Catholic church will be born anew.——It possesses the seed of eternal life. But the Popedom.

Roma, addio!

  1. One day, while Gregory was merely Abbot in a monastery of Rome, as he was walking amongst the people who bought and sold on one of the markets of the city, his attention was drawn to some youths of noble appearance who were offered there for slaves. He inquired to what people they belonged, and learned with great sorrow that this people so distinguished by nature, were as yet wholly destitute of the higher gifts of grace. Afterwards, when bishop of Rome, Gregory purchased the freedom of all Anglo-Saxon youths, had them instructed in Christianity, and never rested until he made the whole of their nation participators in its life and doctrine. Author's Note.
  2. See Neander's Church History.
  3. Hildebrand as Gregory VII., and his Times. By Johannes Voigt, 1846.—Author's Note.
  4. Historical Study. By Gregorovius, 1857.
  5. There is a society in Rome, called Archi confraternita, della Santissima Anunziata, founded by the Spanish Cardinal Torquemado, during the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, the object of which is to provide dowries for poor girls, either for their marriage or their entrance into a convent; in both cases, as provision for them. The Pope gives annually, one hundred scudi to this fund, and each Cardinal a scudo in gold. Six hundred girls are annually provided for, by means of this fraternal society. I acknowledge its good intention, but how much better it would be if it assisted the young girls to provide for themselves.—Author's Note.
  6. Most of the Italian towns, and even Rome itself, are the property of some few princely families. The greater part of the inhabitants are merely tenants. Very few houses are the property of those who inhabit them, and such houses have generally an inscription, sometimes in golden letters, which testifies that they are possessione particolare, of such and such persons. The greater number of tenants again let off a portion of their rooms, and so on, ad infinitum.—Author's Note.
  7. “The Angel of Death,” by J. O. Wallin.
  8. It cost two thousand scudi. It is not certain at what period this ceremony was introduced, or what was the occasion of it; but Leo IX. is mentioned, as being its originator, about the year 1000.—Author's Note.
  9. The Penitentiary-General sits in St. Peter's church, and distributes penance and absolution, by means of a long switch, with which he quietly touches the heads of such as kneel before him, to receive this kind of ecclesiastical punishment.—Author's Note.
  10. The same which, is said to have so greatly enraptured Mozart, that when they ventured to let him see the notes he was able, during one night, to write it down perfectly, from memory.—Author's Note.
  11. This probably was a present from the ex-Queen of Spain, which is said to have cost 80,000 scudi.—Author's Note.
  12. The feet-washing of the pilgrims belongs to the spectacles of the Holy-Week in Rome. In the year of Jubilee they come in great numbers, mostly of the lower class, to the papal capital, where they are received and entertained in houses established for the purpose, and where religious societies (confraternita), in which many persons of high rank are enrolled, come to wash their feet and to wait upon them. I visited, one evening, a house of this kind devoted to women. Long tables were covered with a frugal meal. Young ladies, in a somewhat showy costume, which, however, was very becoming, waited upon them—as if for sport. Things were more serious in the feet-washing room. Handsome signoras were there, tending, with affectionate care, coarse, ill-clad women. “Is it the proper warmth, my sister?” inquired a young “princessa” of an old woman, before whom she knelt whilst she washed her feet.—Author's Note.
  13. As regards this consideration, very different opinions prevail, even amongst Catholics themselves. Some assert that he is not infallible except—as the expression is—ex cathedra, or when he is at the head of the general council. Sœur Geneviève preaches this doctrine. Others again—and the great unlearned multitude—are inclined to attribute to him alone, “as the representative of Jesus Christ,” absolute inspiration and infallibility in questions of faith, and I suspect that he himself is inclined to take this view, which is the most convenient for him.—Author's Note.
  14. The whole constituent parts of the body are also found in the eye; but still the eye has yet something more, something of its own which the rest of the body does not possess, namely, the Crystalline Materia, which constitutes its window, its visual-glass. Even the eye of the tree contains the tree, and can reproduce it.—Author's Note.
  15. St. John's Gospel, i. 19.
  16. How immeasurably superior, however, its logical conception of the church is, in comparison with that of the Roman Catholic church, may be seen from the passages which I here transcribe from the catechisms of the two faiths:—

    Question.—What is the only church by which you can be saved, according to the Roman Catholic doctrine?

    Answer.—The church universal (Christian), is an assembly of all those faithful Christians, who are baptized and acknowledge their faith in Christ Our Lord, and acknowledge as His vicario, and as Christ on earth, the high Roman Pontiff (Il sommo Pontifice Romano).

    “Dottrina breve Christiana, com. p. ordine di Papa Clementi VIII. dal R. P. Roberto Bellarmino della compagnia di Gesu-Roma, 1857.”


    Question.—What, according to the acknowledgment of the Evangelical church, is the only true church of Christ, whose members can be saved?

    Answer.—It is to be met with wherever the word of God is proclaimed, and the means of grace partaken of; and every one who is really converted from sin to the living God, let him

    belong to whatever community of Christians he may, is a member 
    

    of this church, a member of the holy community, as the apostolic confession of faith more closely decides the signification of the word; a holy, universal church.

    I have taken the first passage from the Italian Catechism for children and young persons, generally used at the present time. The latter, I have extracted from a kind of Protestant Catechism, the title of which I do not now recollect; but members of the Evangelical church will not deny its principles to be their own.—Author's Note

  17. I say nothing here of the Greek church, because, as yet, I am unacquainted with it. But as a Christian church it cannot remain separated from a universal church, which embraces the kingdom of God.—Author's Note.
  18. The doctrine and laws of the Catholic church are everywhere the same, but different circumstances produce considerable dissimilarity in the spirit and life of individual Catholic communities, and they ought, therefore, to be spoken of according to their local character.—Author's Note.
  19. The priest frequently preaches, not from the pulpit, but from a gallery, or tribune, upon which he moves backwards and forwards, with much gesticulation. I have several times been present at these preachings, and perhaps it may have been a singular chance, that they have almost always had the seventh commandment for their subject, which furnishes the preacher with the opportunity of much declamation against le donne, and very piquant, but not very edifying representations, which evidently delight the hearers. The chief business of the priests seems to be to attract the people to church, no matter by what means. The church-music has the same object in view, with its opera-marches, and ballets. The church, by this, lowers herself, but not to raise herself again.—Author's Note.
  20. Quite close to this Tarpeian rock, where I enjoy life and nature so unspeakably, is the Convent of Le Vive Sepolte, which receives only Princesses of blood royal. One of this rank wished a few weeks ago to see this grave for the living, and was accompanied on the visit by Sœur Geneviève, the tall nun of the Sacre Cœur. She gave me a detailed account. The living interred occupy themselves by incessant mortification. They fast continually, never read, and direct their constant meditation to death and corruption. They never change their dresses, and their under-garments only twice in the year, hence there prevails an intolerably unhealthy odor in the rooms of the Convent. A former Princess who died there, about two months before, “as a saint,” remained still unburied, and was visited daily by the nuns. The inmates of this Convent can never see their connections, nor yet hear their voices, nor even know any thing about them. Neither are they permitted to see the sacrament; it is administered to them through a hole in the wall; through this hole it is also, that they make their confession and receive absolution. Amongst the nuns there, upwards of thirty in number, many were young and two very handsome, but looked “stupid” and unhealthy. This order was founded by a Princess Farnese, and she buried herself there with the other persons, and it has since then, spite of its unnatural character, considerably increased.

    Not much more natural, and as little edifying, appeared to me the order of “The Sisters of the Holy Sacrament,” who pray both day and night in splendid and magnificent dresses before the wafer and the wine which the priest has blessed.

    The Passionists of Monte Cavi, who live a life of perpetual adoration of the heart of Jesus, were visited a few days since by Mr S——. He found that the good brethren of that order practice by no means severe fasting, but, on the contrary, take good care of themselves. Between meals they repeat their masses and prayers as a matter of form. Such Convents ought to be reformed, and to be made more nearly to resemble those of the Philippines, the Ursulines, where indeed the nuns have rigid rules, but occupy themselves with the education of children,—and also the Carmelites.—Author's Note.