and the whole has become a gaunt monster
catacomb. Afar off, as it were, out of dark caves,
lights glimmer, and the great four-pillared
canopy rises stark and solemn, like a gloomy
catafalque. Afar off, too, are clumps of figures,
all black and in shadow; there are thousands
scattered about and clustered in those dark
corners; and yet all is deserted. All is changed
mysteriously to a great stone prairie—a sort
of blighted heath in marble. Most mournful
and dispiriting, the long bare walls, the desertion,
and the heavy shadows. Draw near now
to the left, where is a crowd of dark figures
packed closely at a great archway—figures
leaning against pillars, bent low on their knees,
but all looking in at the great archway, whence
proceeds sad and solemn chanting—funereal
measure, sustained with a hard rugged vigour.
And looking in I see that it is a great chapel
(elsewhere it would be of itself a great church),
and that by a dim, bluish half-twilight struggling
in at the top windows, it is crowded with dim,
undefined humanity. I see long files of darkly
outlined canons, in their fur capes, sitting
round in black oak stalls, regimentally in lines,
some fifty or sixty in number, a perfect army
canonical; while, to one side, are visible the
dim figures in a spacious gallery, singing men
too—and the floor is filled with standing figures,
packed close and listening. Hours go by, and
the files of singing canons, sitting up in their
ranks, have been giving out the sad refrain,
never flagging; hours go by, and the dark figures
remain and listen, and never move. Gradually
the twilight deepens, and the shadows fall thick,
and then a few glimmering lights bring out again
the regimental lines of the singing canons.

Before this time, I have heard the solemn
tread of feet behind, and looking, see passing
by, a sort of awful pilgrimage, a hooded crucifix
in front; and some twenty figures in grey,
with cloth masks hanging in front, with two
holes for the eyes. They have come through
the streets, gentle and simple, with a stray
noble or two, and in this disguise may indulge
in unostentatious piety. They will pray a few
seconds before the shrine, and then are gone,
their monotone chant lessening in the distance.
An interval, and hark to the sweeter tongues
of disguised ladies! Hooded crucifix again, and
a company of noble dames, shrouded in awful
grey masks, defile out of the shadows. They
have come from pious visitings of other churches.
Then I wander back to the dark motionless
figures, and to where the canons, still ranged
steadily in their files, are working their mournful
diapason. The yellow lights, flickering, flash
upon their faces and grey tippets.

               SECOND PICTURE.

Other dramas, short but powerful, proceed
contemporaneously. Wandering, of these early
penitential days, through this wilderness, the
sad and mournful spirit of the place wraps you
as in a shroud. The inexpressible desolation
falls upon your heart also. Roam hither and
thither purposeless; pass by the lorn altar,
quite bare and stripped of its covering, with the
tabernacle door wide open; then draw near to
that western transept where that scattered crowd
is standing. Others are wandering, purposeless
too: approach, look for an instant, and go their
way. A sort of hollow square of figures. Hush,
signor! it is the Cardinal Grand Penitentiary!

On his dark oak throne, raised on oaken steps,
sits the Cardinal Grand Penitentiary, invested
for these times of penance with powers of
condoning terrible sins, which might be confessed
to minor tribunals and confessed in vain.
Exquisitely harmonious is the toning of that figure
dressed in that most graceful and unrivalled of
ecclesiastical costumes—the violet cap and cape,
and the short transparent lace surplice over
violet too. Gaunt iron-cheeked monks in rusty
black, stand below on each side, with a stern
ascetic look, one leaning on a sort of light wand
of office. From this, spreads out the hollow
square-- of veiled ladies, beggars, penitents,
soldiers, friars, and the general miscellany of a
crowd—kneeling, standing, praying, or looking
curiously in one direction. At each corner
stands up stiff the yellow-striped sad-eyed Swiss,
and leans upon his halberd. Even he looks too
with the rest. And at what? At that wild-
bearded villain of the mountains, in his green
jacket with the silver buttons, and that drinking
gourd slung about, who is on his knees
at the feet of the violet cardinal, pouring into
his ear a tale—such a tale as it must be,
from that animal forehead, and flattened nose,
and shaggy eyebrows! Think of these reserved
sins, so terrible that priest must turn away his
ears. But the violet figure has his arm about
those shoulders, and has drawn the wretch closer
to him, and will give him presently, words of
comfort and consolation. Grim Swiss at corner
leaning on his pike stolidly, curious faces watching
eagerly, beautiful Spanish lady waiting her
turn (she can have no weight upon her soul,
surely?), and the centre violet figure embracing
that wretched criminal,—was there ever such
dramatic contrast?

"Miserere mei, Deus, et secundum magnum
miserationum tuorum dele iniquitatem meam,"
is borne past me in a sullen monotone, and a
hooded brotherhood, with crucifix in front, trails
by in long procession.

                          THIRD PICTURE.

I look back again into that penitential week,
and, parting the mournful clouds which hang
between, see myself, of a dusky evening when it
is darkening slowly, standing at the foot of the
grand Royal Staircase—Scala Regia—with its
embroidered stone arching, and countless pillars
supporting, one for every step. By which
superb approach does Hydra public, turning in from
St. Peter's porch hard by, mount unceremonious,
two flights high, to the chapel called Sixtine.
Hours ago have the travelling men and women,
greedy of sights, gorging themselves on all
possible things that can be seen by eyes, been set
down at the foot of Royal Stair, and at broad
noon have struggled into Michael Angelo's