"The bell from far mourneth the dying day." The evening prayer serves to mark all time. "I will meet you an hour before, or an hour after Ave Maria," say the Italians, so devoutly are the eras of night and day distinguished. Oswald then enjoyed the spectacle of sunset, as the luminary sank slowly amid ruins, and seemed submitting to decline, even like the works of man. This brought back all his wonted thoughts. The image of Corinne appeared too promising, too hopeful, for such a moment. His soul sought for its father's, in the home of heavenly spirits. This animated the clouds on which he gazed, and lent them the sublime aspect of his immortal friend: he trusted that his prayers at last might call down some beneficent pity, resembling a good father's benediction.
[CHAPTER II.]
Oswald, in his anxiety to study the religion of the country, resolved to hear some of its preachers, during Passion week. He counted the days that must elapse ere his reunion with Corinne; while she was away, he could endure no imaginative researches He forgave his own happiness while beside her; but all that charmed him then would have redoubled the pangs of his exile.
It is at night, and by half-extinguished tapers, that the preachers, at this period, hold forth. All the women are in black, to commemorate the death of Jesus: there is something very affecting in these yearly weeds, that have been renewed for so many centuries. One enters the noble churches with true emotion; their tombs prepare us for serious thought, but the preacher too often dissipates all this in an instant. His pulpit is a somewhat long tribunal, from one end to the other of which he walks, with a strangely mechanical agitation. He fails not to start with some phrase to which, at the end of the sentence, he returns like a pendulum; though, by his impassioned gestures, you would think him very likely to forget it: but this is a systematic fury, "a fit of regular and voluntary distraction," often seen in Italy, and indicating none but superficial or artificial feelings. A crucifix is hung in the pulpit; the preacher takes it down, kisses, presses it in his arms, and then hangs it up again, with perfect coolness, as soon as the pathetic passage is got through. Another method for producing effect is pulling off and putting on his cap, with inconceivable rapidity. One of these men attacked Voltaire and Rousseau on the skepticism of the age. He threw his cap into the middle of the rostrum, as the representative of Jean Jacques, and then cried: "Now, philosopher of Geneva, what have you to say against my arguments?" He was silent for some seconds, as if expecting a reply; but, as the cap said nothing, he replaced it on his head, and terminated the discourse by adding: "Well, since I've convinced you, let us say no more about it." These uncouth scenes are frequent in Rome, where real pulpit oratory is extremely rare. Religion is there respected as an all-powerful law; its ceremonies captivate the senses; but its preachers deal less in morals than in dogmas that never reach the heart. Eloquence, in this, as in many other branches of literature, is there devoted to common-places, that can neither describe nor explain. A new thought raises a kind of rebellion in minds at once so ardent and so languid, that they need uniformity to calm them; and love it for the repose it brings. There is an etiquette in these sermons, by which words take precedence of ideas; and this order would be deranged, if the preacher spoke from his own heart, or searched his soul for what he ought to say. Christian philosophy, which finds analogies between religion and humanity, is as little understood in Italy, as philosophy of every other sort. To speculate on religion is deemed almost as scandalous as scheming against it; so wedded are all men to mere forms and old usages. The worship of the Virgin is particularly dear to southern people; it seems allied to all that is most chaste and tender in their love of woman; but every preacher treats this subject with the same exaggerated rhetoric, unconscious that his gestures perpetually turn it into ridicule. There is scarcely to be heard, from one Italian pulpit, a single specimen of correct accent, or natural delivery.
Oswald fled from this most fatiguing of inflictions—that of affected vehemence—and sought the Coliseum, where a Capuchin was to preach in the open air, at the foot of an altar, in the centre of the inclosure which marks the road to the cross. What a theme were this arena, where martyrs succeeded gladiators: but there was no hope of hearing it dilated on by the poor Capuchin, who knew nothing of the history of man, save in his own life. Without, however, coming there to hear his bad sermon, Oswald felt interested by the objects around him. The congregation was principally composed of the Camaldoline fraternity, at that time attired in gray gowns that covered both head and body, leaving but two little openings for the eyes, and having a most ghostly air. Their unseen faces were prostrated to the earth; they beat their breasts; and when their preacher threw himself on his knees, crying: "Mercy and pity!" they followed his example. As this appeal from wretchedness to compassion, from Earth to Heaven, echoed through the classic porticos, it was impossible not to experience a deeply pious feeling in the soul's inmost sanctuary. Oswald shuddered; he remained standing, that he might not pretend to a faith which was not his own; yet it cost him an effort to forbear from this fellowship with mortals, whoever they were, thus humbling themselves before their God; for, does not an invocation to heavenly sympathy equally become us all?
The people were struck by his noble and foreign aspect, but not displeased with his omitting to join them; for no men on earth can be more tolerant than the Romans. They are accustomed to persons who come among them but as sight-seers; and, either from pride or indolence, never seek to make strangers participate in their opinions. It is a still more extraordinary fact, that, at this period especially, there are many who take on themselves the strictest punishments; yet, while the scourge is in their hands, the church-door is still open, and every stranger welcome to enter as usual. They do nothing for the sake of being looked at, nor are they frightened from anything because they happen to be seen; they proceed towards their own aims, or pleasures, without knowing that there is such a thing as vanity, whose only aim and pleasure consists in the applause of others.
[CHAPTER III.]
Much has been said of Passion week in Rome. A number of foreigners arrive during Lent, to enjoy this spectacle; and as the music at the Sixtine Chapel, and the illumination of St. Peter's, are unique of their kind, they naturally attract much curiosity, which is not always satisfied. The dinner served by the Pope to the twelve representatives of the Apostles, whose feet he bathes, must recall solemn ideas; yet a thousand inevitable circumstances often destroy their dignity. All the contributors to these customs are not equally absorbed by devotion; ceremonies so oft repeated become mechanical to most of their agents; the young priests hurry over the service with a dexterous activity anything but imposing. All the mysteries that should veil religion are dissipated, by the attention we cannot help giving to the manner in which each performs his function. The avidity of the one party for the meat set before them, the indifference of the other to their prayers and genuflections, deprive the whole of its due sublimity.