The co-existence of fear with hatred of a dominant priesthood may be observed in any country where priests have been the governing class, and perhaps, after the Pontifical States, may be best observed in India. The Brahmans, however, have not in the popular eye so direct a command over the lot of the departed as Rome has secured for her own priests, nor have they any such pecuniary profit out of the faith of the survivors. On the other hand, no class of Brahmans sinks so far below the average of respectability, among their countrymen, as do the lower clergy of the Roman and Neapolitan States.
But the contempt of the Italians for the priesthood is no more thorough than is their reverence. The man who will not introduce a certain priest to his daughters, will pay him to save the soul of his mother out of the pains of purgatory. To the Monsignore Don Juan, to use a term of Gregorovius, he will manifest profound respect, while in his heart he scorns him. To the not worse but less successful priest he will manifest contempt and spend some wit upon his vices, and yet, in his heart, will fear his occult power over the souls of his departed kindred.
The worldly professions have no such lot as the sacred one. Except the show corps for inglorious pomp around the sovereign, the military sphere for Romans is narrow, foreigners taking the lead. Letters are no profession. The civil service is principally in the hands of the priests. The law exists, and there are men with the titles of advocates and judges. But if we drew any idea of the status and "chances" belonging to such titles, from England, it would be altogether misleading.
Chief Justice Whiteside has shown how wide the difference is, and he spoke of the great city. In the little one of which we now speak, two English gentlemen, who could not find room in the inn, were directed to the house of an advocate, who played my host with assiduity and good humour, and charged four francs each for dinner, bed, candles, and service. The doctors seem most like men with a professional standing; and if they keep from politics, they have a fair chance of leading a quiet life in obscure usefulness.
Yet is the whole world called to take this state of things as the model of the subordination of the layman to the priest. "The idea of that subordination," we are told, "is realized in the Papal government." The ideal! This absorption, then, of the State into the so-called Church, this suppression of king, nobles, and people under the priest, is not an abnormal and monstrous lusus ecclesiae, but is the ideal of the new "political order." Any one can understand it—the king merged in the prince-bishop or else a vassal of the priest; the noble the retainer and jewelled ornament of the priest; the people the helots of the priest. That is the model. Here is realized for us the ideal of the one fold and one shepherd.
The English labourer knows that his son may, like James Cook, walk the quarter-deck, or, like Robert Stephenson, sit in the legislature. The Roman noble knows that the utmost his son, if not a priest, can rise to is to wear pearls and stars at the court of a priest, and kiss his foot when he makes a great show.
The kindly monk who, at Subiaco, shows a stranger over the Sacred Cave of Benedict, glories in far-famed gardens, which any peasant from Appenzell could tell him might be equalled in some private houses in such a village as Heiden. Fame sometimes draws out the dying notes of her trumpet unaccountably long. The monk is careful to enlist your admiration for several meritorious works in painting and sculpture, but to Protestants one gem is shown only by request. It is a portrait of the devil painted on the wall, in dark passages, and not visible except when a light is flashed upon it. This done, it appears for a moment, or longer, as the operator pleases, through one opening, fitted with real iron gratings, athwart of which the demon glares out of the gloom upon the spectator. Such a picture is capable of being put to uses that would meet the strongest views of those who call for something to strike the senses, and through them to affect the feelings.
As long ago as the days of the man of the land of Uz, the monotheistic way of depicting a spiritual presence was, "I could not discern the form thereof"; and, surely, even in that remote time, the aesthetic was higher than that of the Sacred Cave.
Following the smiling valley from Subiaco to Tivoli, one would, in 1867, probably see youths in the uniform of the zouaves, lounging on a bank, near one or both of the towns. Foreign mercenaries! would the Italians say. Foreign, certainly, and some of them mercenaries; but some, even in the dress of a private, would unmistakably show the gentleman—no mercenary, but a crusader who, in answer to the cry raised after Castelfidardo, has come from afar to fight for St. Peter, to "die for religion."