which will bear a little painting in, even by
a feeble hand. I see a clustering of snowy
figures about the white sitting figure in the
great chair, with a sudden suspense and
expectancy; then, without formal commencement,
it has set in and begun to flow. Flux
and reflux of white-robed, ascending crimson
steps, prostrate them before the patriarchal
chair, and return freighted with a huge yellow
branch, all curled and twisted, which looks
like a monster sheaf of corn, but which I know
to be a Palm; music breathing softly from
behind the golden grates, and the eye is resting on
the two lines which edge the lawn like a border
of violets; princes ecclesiastical of the snowy
ermine capes and scarlet caps, whose robes, flowing
over their feet in folds voluminous, give
them a fanciful likeness to purple mermaidens,
folds that gather about the hapless chaplains
sitting coiled up at their feet; music of the
spheres still breathing from the golden grate,
and pageant still moving forward dreamily.
Presently, the violet mermaidens are being
drawn in, and a deep-toned ribbon, shot with
downy white and just flecked at the edges with
flashing spots of scarlet, is being unwound
slowly. These are so many portrait-figures, rich
and mellowed, taken down from their frames,
advancing, some with a haughty dignity—modern
Mazarins and Richelieus from the Louvre
gallery—some, bent and decrepid, tottering on
feebly. One face, swarthy and shaded ever so
delicately, with a blue clouding over the lips and
chin, must be a Velasquez stolen from the
Escurial, so olive is it, so fine in the lines, so
mellow in the tones. Voices, some way
connected with excited fingers pointing out all
things, whisper across me that the Velasquez
picture belongs to the noble House of Altieri,
sounds which ring sweetly on the ear; and
other voices jostling each other in their eagerness,
whisper that he is Camerlengo, ofiice of
awful significance, second only to the ruler;
and that when the gentle Pio shall have laid
by his tiara for ever, the noble Velasquez is
already marked out for one who shall step
upon the throne temporarily, and enjoy, say a
three weeks' brief kingship, coining moneys, and
walking with guards and state. I see, too,
pass by, the round florid face of a famous
English cardinal, whose new ennoblement and scarlet
investiture raised through the length and
breadth of his country a storm and hurly-burly
barely laid now: yet he is not so full and stately
as of old—there are lines and care in the florid
spectacled face, and the great form is wasted.
So he passes by, absorbed into the line, and
descends, bearing his huge furbelowed Palm; passes
by, too, the most eminent Ugolino, name that
almost startles and sends you musing back to
your Dante; passes by, too, ascetic Borromeo—
tall and hatchet-faced, with Merode the gaunt
and lean-necked, whose fierce ancestor
supplied our English tongue with the useful word
marauder. Passes by also one that bears the
name of him who comforted the Sixth Pius in his
exile, and wrote the story of both their sufferings
—Pacca, Monsignore e Maestro di Camera to his
present sovereign—young, handsome, insinuating,
and, though so young, presently to fence off
the sun's rays with broad-leafed scarlet hat.
After him, come strands patriarchal—mysterious
chief priests of far-off churches, who look like
sheiks and dervishes, and are gorgeously barbaric
in royal crowns and violet robes strewn with gold
and fleur de lys—venerable men, with long rusty
grey beards, and strange exceptional privileges
in the matter of rites. After them, come strands
episcopal—a satiety of mitres positively cheap
on this occasion—Greek, Armenian, English,
French, German, American—all being wound
and wound slowly into the grand gaudy chromatic
cord. A grand bearing and stately walk in
these dignitaries, each advancing in kingly
fashion, erect and with head thrown back, not
crowding on his predecessor, but leaving a
handsome space before and behind. Follows, the
stream of minor churchmen, a turning kaleidoscope
of purple, white, scarlet, dazzling and
confused, and they all pass by and descend, glorified
with a branch of Palm. Looking round, I see on
all sides yellow corn-sheaves tossing and rustling
in the air. It is perfect harvest-time, and they
rustle to the music from the golden lattice-work,
undying and beautiful,—almost monotonous from
being so long sustained.

Now, the threads ecclesiastical are spun out
and a yet gaudier strand is being fastened on—a
mass of pure gold embroidery—and after fluttering
unsteadily, settles at last into types diplomatic,
the golden wooden dolls, stiff, ossified, and
iron-jointed, suffering a magnificent strangulation.
They are joined on insensibly to the
other strands. Walking solitary, seeming as
a figure of molten gold, advances the superb
Grammont, now moving a few paces, now stopping
short, with a thousand eyes concentrated
on him. First of the line, of stately presence
and many cubits high, he has the true sickly
jeune premier face—M. Adolphe or Edouard, of
the oiled moustache and fringe of whisker,
half Murat, three-quarters coiffeur. He might
tell his bonnes fortunes upon his beads, being
once adored of ladies, and having sat, it is
whispered to me, for the love-sick Alfredo
in the naughty opera. But now, though still
magnificent, still glossy, I note the crow's feet
gathering under his eyes; and now, fading a
little, and un peu usé, he becomes devout, and
reads his book scrupulously all through the
offices. Follow him, his brethren accredited,
Russia, Austria, Prussia, Spain, and smaller
fry, all molten gold dolls, behind whom cluster a
line of auxiliaries, smooth-shaven dependents of
legation, in agonies of minor choking. And they
all pass by, and are all glorified with the yellow
wheat-sheaves. No clogging of the machinery
all this while; no halts or unseemly gaps; all
flowing on with a tranquil smoothness. How
many hours flowing now?—and yet we look on
unfatigued. Diplomatic strand now spun out,
fines off to a point as it were, seems to languish,
and is at last spent. Yet see yonder, at the
misty corner, fresh sparkle and glitter: a band