ST. PETER'S.
The first day in Rome sees us pursuing the phantom of the St. Peter ceremonies, for all of which, tickets have been secured for us. Solid fact as the performance of the functions remains, for us it assumes a forcible unreality, through the impeding intervention of black dresses and veils, with what should be women under them. But as these creatures push like battering-rams, and caper like he-goats, we shall prefer to adjourn the question of their humanity, and to give it the benefit of a doubt. We must except, however, our countrywomen from dear Boston, who were not seen otherwise than decently and in order. Into the well-remembered palco we now drag the trembling neophyte, dished up in black in a manner altogether astonishing to herself. And we push her youthful head this way and that. "See, there are the cardinals; there is the pope; there, in white-capped row, sit the pilgrims. Now, the pope's mitre being removed, he proceeds with great state to wash the pilgrims' feet." But she, like sister Anne in the Blue Beard controversy, might reply, "I see only a flock of black dresses, heaped helter-skelter, the one above the other." Some bits of the picture she does get, certainly, which may thus be catalogued: "Pope's nose, black dress, ditto skull-cap, black dress, a touch of cardinal's back, black dress—and now? Bla—ck dre—ss, for the rest of the time. But what is this commotion?" For now the he-goats begin to jump in the most extraordinary way, racing out of the tribune as eagerly as they had pressed into it. Their haste is to see the tavola, or pilgrims' table, up stairs, where the pope and cardinals are to wait upon the twelve elect, whose foot-washing we have just tried to see. Silence, decency, decorum—all are forgotten. One in diamonds calls to a friend in the crowd outside, "Hollo, Hollo! Come along with us!" and at the top of her voice. If "the devil take the hindmost" be the moving cause of this gymnastic, I would humbly suggest that, on these occasions, the devil certainly seems to be in the foremost. With a little suppressed grumbling, we tumble out of the tribune, and descend to the body of the church, where the double line of Swiss guards detains us so long as to render our tickets for the cupola, where the pilgrims' feast takes place, nearly useless. This detention seems to be entirely arbitrary; for when, after endless entreaty, we are allowed to reach the door, an easy ingress is allowed us. And here, bit by bit, the neophyte puzzles out the significance of the scene before her—a table set with massive golden ornaments (silver gilt at best), the twelve white caps behind; the great church dignitaries handing plates of fish, vegetables, and fruit towards the table; the pope hidden behind some black dress or other, and a chanting of prayers or texts, we know not what. The whole is much like the stage banquet in Macbeth, the part of Banquo's ghost being played by the spirit of the Christian religion.
And now away, away! to the door of the Sistine Chapel, where the Miserere will be sung at six of the clock, it now being one of the same. So, in profane haste, we reach that door, already occupied by a small mob of women of the politer sort, and others. Here one maintains one's position till two o'clock, when the door opens, and, in shocking disorder, the mob enter. Those who keep the door exclaim, "Do not push so, ladies; there is room for all." But the savageness of the Anglo-Saxon race has full scope to-day, not being on its good behavior, as at home. So the abler-bodied jam and cram the less athletic without stint. After falling harmlessly on my face, I breathe freely, and obtain an end seat on the long benches reserved for the unreserved ladies.
And here passed three weary hours before the office began, and another hour after that before the musical bonne bouche, coveted by these people, and little appreciated by many of them, was offered to their tired acceptance. The first interval was mostly employed in the resuscitating process of chawing upon such victuals as had not proved contraband for such an occasion. And here were exchanged some little amenities which revived our sinking hopes of the race. Biscuits, sandwiches, and chocolate pastilles were shared. "Muffin from the Hotel de Russie" was offered by a face not unknown. Munching thereon with thankfulness, we interrogate, and find with joy a Boston woman. O comfort! be my friend; and when the next black rush doth come, if fisticuffs should become general and dangerous, be so good as to belabor the woman who belabors me.
The office begins at five. It consists mostly of linked sameness long drawn out. The chapel is by this time well filled with ceremonial amateurs in every sort and quality. Men of all nationalities, in gentlemen's dress, fill the seats and throng the aisle. Priests, militaires, and even Sisters of Charity, vary the monotony of the strict coat and pantaloon. Upon an upright triangle, as is well known, are spiked the fifteen burning candles, of which all, save one, must be quenched before we can enjoy our dear-bought Miserere. Much of our attendant zeal is concentrated upon the progress visible in their decline. The effect of the chanting is as square and monotonous as would be the laying down of so many musical paving-stones. We tried to peep at the Latin text of a book of prayers in the hand of a priest on our left; but the pitiless Swiss guard caused him and his Breviary to move on, and this resource was lost. About half way through the office, a pause came over matters, very unwelcome to our hurry. A door on the left of the altar opened, and the pope entered, preceded by his guard. He walked to his throne on the right of the altar, and the chanting was resumed. Some time before this, however, the treni or lamentations were sung. These were chanted in a high voice, neither fresh nor exact, and did not make on me the impression of sixteen years ago. The extinguishing of the candles was a slow agony, the intervals appearing endless. Finally, all the lights were out. The one burning taper which represented Christ was removed out of sight, the pope sank upon his knees before the altar, and the verses of the Miserere were sung. Twilight and fixed attention prevailed through the chapel, whose vaulted roof lends a certain magic of its own to the weird chant. Yet, with the remembrance of sixteen years since, and with present judgment, I am inclined to consider the supremacy of the Miserere a musical superstition. I know not what critical convictions its literal study would develop, but, as I heard it, much of it seemed out of tune, and deformed by other than musical discords. The soprani, without exception, were husky, and strained their voices to meet the highest effects. The vaulted roof, indeed, gives a lovely scope to such melody as there is. The dim, majestic frescos, which you still feel, though you see them no longer,—the brilliancy and variety of the company, its temporary stillness,—all these circumstances in this ne plus ultra of the Roman æsthetic combine to impress you. But the kneeling pontiff and his cardinals did not appear to me invested with any true priesthood. I could feel no religious sympathy with their movements, which seemed a show, and part of a show—nothing more. And when the verses were all sung, and the shuffling of feet at the end got through with, I staid not to see the procession into the Pauline Chapel, nor the adoration of the relics, nor the mopping of St. Peter's altar. I had seen enough of such sights, and, quietly wrapping the twilight about my discontent, I thankfully went where kindred voices and a kindred faith allowed me to claim the shelter of home.