Thin and airy at first, borne on light treble
wings, it comes forth fluttering: very Æolian in
measure and barbaric in its harmony, but very
mournful, softly praying mercy. I think at this
moment of a dismal-minded tuner sounding his
thirds and fifths persistently in a sad minor key;
and it brings back to me perfectly this early
portion. Up and down, rising and falling, that
soft strain wind flows, while all bend their heads
low, and turn their ears straining at every note.
Suddenly, crowds of voices burst in with a cry,
struggling with each other; contending, rising
to greater force, almost shouting, praying for,
demanding mercy with a wild importunity; then
subsiding, turns to sweetest supplication, and sad
wail of despair, growing weaker and thinner, until
at last the first Æolian measure flutters in, and
swells, and falls calmly, repeating itself. The
melancholy tuning thus recurs and recurs, the
frantic chorus clamorous for mercy, striking in
fiercely. Thus alternate, now soft and airy,
now fierce and overpowering, the wild Allegri
chant winds through many verses, repeating
itself. Yery wild, very cold and severe, bursting
at times into the richest breadth of
harmonics (there must have been a dozen parts), it
dies out. Follows, a chilling stillness; silence
as of death; great yellow candle high in air,
flaring its last. Ghostly shadows flit upon the
walls, dancing grotesquely among the gaunt
Angelo figures. Then from one of the indistinct
white specks far away, reads solemnly and sadly,
all the dark veils being bent low: "Christus
factus est homo pro nobis," &c.

Lo! the flaring yellow candle has gone! It
is finished, and the white specks flit away. Now
come gushing forth the black-robed miscellany,
the veils and scarfs, the evening ties and coats,
all much heated, and with a wearied look. The
stark figures who have been waiting judgment
on the great waste of wall, together with the
pointing prophets overhead, will have the
domain presently to themselves. We seem to have
watched through a long night.

                  FOURTH PICTURE.

I stand waiting by the two Patagonian
cherubs—so chubby and so playfully graceful—who
carry the great basin of holy water between
them: for the days of mourning are spent, and
the great Easter festivity has been just played
out. The procession has swept by, and the
high high mass sung. I have seen the elevation
of the Host, and stand waiting by the
Patagonian cherubs and their burden, trysting-place
for lost sheep to meet. Gothicweary hath
covenanted to meet at the sign of The Chubby
Cherubs. There do I wait my company, to see
together the final closing scene of the week of
scenes—the Grand Benediction.

But a drizzling rain descending pitilessly the
whole morning, this famous spectacle is not to
be. Such rude interference is wholly
exceptional. Experienced persons take on them to
say (there are oldest inhabitants, you may be
sure, in an Eternal City) that for twenty-seven
years such cruel interruption has not been.
And this is why we wait by The Chubby Cherubs,
close to the door, having thus the whole
grand sweep spreading away before us,
absolutely in faint clouds of distance, with the
warmest tinting stretching off too, and the
crowded ranks of a congregation army, man
behind man, stretching away too, until, amid
the clouds, amid the far-off perspective, a white
figure shall be made out, and give a substituted
interior Benediction. A blue and golden guard,
a thousand strong, with white plumes, edges the
army congregated all the way down, finishing
off in the perspective.

Soft! There is fluctuation yonder—glimmer
as of a white speck—short bark of command
from chief officers—and rattle of arms rolls
down smartly till lost in the distance; the
thousand white plumes sink suddenly; the
blue and golden guards are on one knee;
congregational army, with a roll as of an Atlantic
breaker, sinks on one knee too. Hush—perfect
stillness—and those who have good sight
can make out the white speck moving, casting
forth, it would seem, the blessing. It is done,
and over the rattle of the blue and golden guards
rising again, and the rustle and shifting of
population, is heard the low subdued booming
artillery, away at Santo Angelo.

The huge Atlantic wave of crowd, roaring,
chafing, and fretting, now comes blustering
down, to sweep tumultuous through all ways of
egress. But the blue and gold warriors drawn
across, present a strong line of hindrance not to
be broken, and the billows are flung back as
upon a lee shore. Procession has yet to pass
by, wending homeward, and must have a clear
lane, kept by the gold and blue. Portly
commander, with sword drawn, dresses his men
close, and will let no man by. Italian billows
take it patiently, British billows fume and
are boisterously indignant. It is gross—law
of nations outraged—worst instance of papal
tyranny yet met with—write to minister—write
to Times—write to everybody. Lynx-eyed
commander not to be moved: "Steady in the ranks
there!" Suddenly the bright señora of the
Sixtine, of the dark eyes and eddying jet hair,
who has been fluttering down the ranks of the
men-at-arms, has spied an opening, and in a flash
has shot through! Blue and gold stand aghast,
panic has fallen on their ranks at this daring.
Portly commander turns pale with rage: then,
stumbling over his sword, flies in pursuit.
Now, Heaven speed thee, dark-eyed señora, and
some kind fate adroitly trip up this lumbering
persecutor. Bird-like she flies—her golden
ornaments glistening—has well-nigh cleared the
open space, when a gigantic sapper and miner,
a rough-bearded monster, steps from the ranks
and bars her passage. Ruin seize thee, ruthless
sapper! confusion wait on thy banners, ill-
favoured miner! Señora, I grieve to write, is
captured; is brought back by portly commander,
prize of his bow and spear. He is sadly blown,
breathes stentorious as a walrus. I am glad.
May he have contracted chronic asthma from