The ancient costumes still worn by the ecclesiastics ill accord with their modern heads. The bearded Patriarch of the Greek Church is the most venerable figure left for such offices. The old fashion, too, of men courteseying like women, is dangerous to decorum. The past and the present, indeed, rather jostle than harmonize; little care is taken to strike the imagination, and none to prevent its being distracted. A worship so brilliantly majestic in its externals is certainly well fitted to elevate the soul; but more caution should be observed, lest its ceremonies degenerate into plays, in which the actors get by rote what they have to do, and at what time; when to pray, when to have done praying; when to kneel, and when to rise. Court rules introduced at church restrain that soaring elasticity which alone can give man hope of drawing near his Maker.
The generality of foreigners observe this; yet few Romans but yearly find fresh pleasure in these sacred fêtes. It is a peculiarity in Italian character, that versatility of taste leads not to inconstancy; and that vivacity removes all necessity for truth; it deems everything more grand, more beautiful than reality. The Italians, patient and persevering even in their amusements, let imagination embellish what they possess, instead of bidding them crave what they have not; and as elsewhere vanity teaches men to seem fastidious, in Italy, warmth of temperament makes it a pleasure to admire.
After all the Romans had said to Nevil of their Passion week, he had expected much more than he had found. He sighed for the august simplicity of the English Church, and returned home discontented with himself, for not having been affected by that which he ought to have felt. In such cases we fancy that the soul is withered, and fear that we have lost that enthusiasm, without which reason itself would serve but to disgust us with life.
CHAPTER IV.
Good Friday restored all the religious emotions of Lord Nevil; he was about to regain Corinne—the sweet hopes of love blended with that piety, from which nothing save the factitious career of the world can entirely wean us. He sought the Sixtine Chapel, to hear the far-famed Miserére. It was yet light enough for him to see the pictures of Michael Angelo—the Day of Judgment, treated by a genius worthy so terrible a subject. Dante had infected this painter with the bad taste of representing mythological beings in the presence of Christ; but it is chiefly as demons that he has characterized these Pagan creations. Beneath the arches of the roof are seen the prophets and heathen priestesses, called as witnesses by the Christians (teste David cum Sibylla); a host of angels surround them. The roof is painted as if to bring heaven nearer to us; but that heaven is gloomy and repulsive. Day scarcely penetrates the windows, which throw on the pictures more shadows than beams. This dimness, too, enlarges the already commanding figures of Michael Angelo. The funereal perfume of incense fills the aisles, and every sensation prepares us for that deeper one which awaits the touch of music. While Oswald was lost in these reflections, he beheld Corinne, whom he had not expected yet to see, enter that part of the chapel devoted to females, and separated by a grating from the rest. She was in black; pale with abstinence, and so tremulous, as she perceived him, that she was obliged to support herself by the balustrade. At this moment the Miserére commenced. Voices well practised in this pure and antique chant rose from an unseen gallery; every instant rendered the chapel darker. The music seemed to float in the air; no longer in the voluptuously impassioned strains which the lovers had heard together a week since, but such as seemed bidding them renounce all earthly things. Corinne knelt before the grate. Oswald himself was forgotten. At such a moment she would have loved to die. If the separation of soul and body were but pangless; if an angel would bear away thought and feeling on his wings—divine sparks, that shall return to their source—death would be then the heart's spontaneous act, an ardent prayer most mercifully granted. The verses of this psalm are sung alternately, and in very contrasted styles. The heavenly harmony of one is answered by murmured recitative, heavy and even harsh, like the reply of worldings to the appeal of sensibility, or the realities of life defeating the vows of generous souls: when the soft choir reply, hope springs again, again to be frozen by that dreary sound which inspires not terror, but utter discouragement; yet the last burst, most reassuring of all, leaves just the stainless and exquisite sensation in the soul which we would pray to be accorded when we die. The lights are extinguished; night advances; the pictures gleam like prophetic phantoms through the dusk; the deepest silence reigns: speech would be insupportable in this state of self-communion; every one steals slowly away, reluctant to resume the vulgar interests of the world.
Corinne followed the procession to St. Peter's, as yet illumined but by a cross of fire: this type of grief shining alone through the immense obscure, fair image of Christianity amid the shades of life! A wan light falls over the statues on the tombs. The living, who throng these arches, appear but pigmies, compared with the effigies of the dead. Around the cross is a space cleared, where the Pope, arrayed in white, with all the cardinals behind him, prostrate themselves to the earth, and remain nearly half an hour profoundly mute. None hear what they request; but they are old, going before us towards the tomb, whither we must follow. Grant us, O God! the grace so to ennoble age, that the last days of life may be the first of immortality. Corinne, too, the young and lovely Corinne, knelt near the priests; the mild light weakened not the lustre of her eyes. Oswald looked on her as an entrancing picture, as well as an adored woman. Her orison concluded, she rose; her lover dared not approach, revering the meditations in which he believed her still plunged; but she came to him, with all the rapture of reunion;—happiness was so shed over her every action, that she received the greetings of her friends with unwonted gayety. St. Peters, indeed, had suddenly become a public promenade, where every one made appointments of business or of pleasure. Oswald was astonished at this power of running from one extreme to another; and, much as he rejoiced in the vivacity of Corinne, he felt surprised at her thus instantly banishing all traces of her late emotions. He could not conceive how this glorious edifice, on so solemn a day, could be converted into the Café of Rome, where people meet for amusement; and seeing Corinne encircled by admirers, to whom she chatted cheerfully, as if no longer conscious where she stood, he felt some mistrust as to the levity of which she might be capable. She read his thoughts, and hastily breaking from her party, took his arm to walk the church with him, saying: "I have never spoken to you of my religious sentiments; let me do so now; perhaps I may thus disperse the clouds I see rising in your mind."
[CHAPTER V.]
"The difference of our creeds, my dear Oswald," continued Corinne, "is the cause of the unspoken displeasure you cannot prevent me from detecting. Your faith is serious and severe, ours lively and tender. It is generally believed that my church is the most rigorous; it may be so, in a country where struggles exist between the two; but here we have no doctrinal dissensions. England has experienced many. The result is, that Catholicism here has taken an indulgent character, such as it cannot have where Reformation is armed against it. Our religion, like that of the ancients, animates the arts, inspires the poets, and makes part of all the joys of life; while yours, established in a country where reason predominates over fancy, is stamped with a moral sternness that will never be effaced. Ours calls on us in the name of love; yours in that of duty. Your principles are liberal; our dogmas bigoted; yet our orthodox despotism has some fellowship with private circumstances; and your religious liberty exacts respect for its own laws, without any exception. It is true that our monastics undergo sad hardships, but they choose them freely; their state is a mysterious engagement between God and man. Among the secular Catholics here, love, hope, and faith are the chief virtues, all announcing, all bestowing, peace. Far from our priests forbidding us to rejoice, they tell us that we thus evince our gratitude for the gifts of Heaven. They enjoin us to practise charity and repentance, as proofs of our respect for our faith, and our desire to please its Founder; but they refuse us not the absolution we zealously implore; and the errors of the heart meet here a mercy elsewhere denied. Did not our Saviour tell the Magdalene that much should be pardoned to the greatness of her love? As fair a sky as ours echoed these words: shall we then despair of our Creator's pity?"—"Corinne," returned Nevil, "how can I combat arguments so sweet, so needful to me? and yet I must. It is not for a day I love Corinne; to her I look for a long futurity of content and virtue. The purest religion is that which sacrifices passion to duty, as a continual homage to the Supreme Being. A moral life is the best offering. We degrade the Creator by attributing to him a wish that tends not towards our intellectual perfection. Paternity, that godlike symbol of faultless sway, seeks but to render its children better and happier. How, then, suppose that God demands of man actions that have not the welfare of man for their object? what confused notions spring from the habit of attaching more importance to religious ceremonies than to active worth! You know that it is just after Passion week the greatest number of murders are committed in Rome. The long fast has, in more senses than one, put its votaries in possession of funds, and they spend the treasures of their penitence in assassinations. The most disgusting criminal here scruples to eat meat on Fridays; convinced that the greatest of crimes were that of disobeying the ordinances of the Church: all conscience is lavished on that point; as if the Divinity were like one of this world's rulers, who prefers flattering submission to faithful service. Is this courtier-like behavior to be substituted for the respect we owe the Eternal, as the source and the recompense of a forbearing and spotless life? The external demonstrations of Italian Catholicism excuse the soul from all interior piety. The spectacle over, the feeling ends—the duty is done; no one remains, as with us, long occupied by thoughts born of strict and sincere self-examination."