—glory beatifies the sight, and seraphic harmony wraps the saints in bliss.
Another sight of this week, is the washing of the feet of the pilgrims. The ladies of Rome belong to a sisterhood who perform this service on Good Friday for the female pilgrims. The hospital of the Pelegrini was crowded; we could hardly make our way. In my life I never saw so much female beauty as among the sisterhood—their faces so perfect in contour; so lovely in expression; so noble, and so soft, that the recollection will haunt my memory for ever.
I went to mass at the Church of the Jesuits—as usual glittering with ornaments, precious stones, wax-lights, and all manner of finery. The music was in the same style—well suited for the Opera-house; it would there have enchanted; but it wanted that solemn, religious descant, which awed the spirit in the Sistine Chapel.
The illumination of St. Peter’s terminated the sights of the week—that and the fire-works of the Castel Sant’ Angelo.—There is more of creation in the first of these sights than in any other in the world. It is but a dim, and scant, and human imitation of the third verse of the first chapter of Genesis; but it is an imitation of the most sublime act of divine power; and though bearing but a
