66 bring down on him the vengeance of papal power. But the man's heart was evidently full of bitterness at the mockery and folly before him, while his country lay prostrate in the dust. Addio," said he, as he shook my hand, and the next moment was lost in the crowd. Many a time have I thought of him since, and would give much to know his after history. Perhaps he has before this suffered as a conspirator, and gone with the multitude of those whose tongues his Holiness has silenced in prison or death. And yet the man was right. What a close to religious ceremonies had these last two nights been! Their moral effect on the people was like that of any fire-works, with the exception that the successor of the apostle had got up these and graced the Sabbath with the illumination, having provided beforehand for the breaking of a few necks, by administering the last sacrament to the poor creatures who climbed up St. Peter's. The sanctity and infallibility of the Spiritual Father are not so easy to believe in under the shadow of the papal throne, and it puzzled us prodigiously to account for the conversions to Catholicism of English and Americans in Rome. How a man of ordinary sense and penetration can become a Romanist in Rome, is passing strange. But it is now late at night-the noise and magnificence of the day are over. Rome is once more asleep, and the same moon that shone on the ancient capitol, looks mournfully down on the few columns that stand in the old Roman Forum. In the ancient circus of Nero, all this religious pomp has been to-day. Around St. Peter's is now the gathering and the greatness-formerly it was around the Coliseum. But to-day the Coliseum has been forgotten; no foot has sought its falling corridors. The gladiato rial shows have been exchanged for popish ones; and the Roman Eagle that flew over the old city, has been smitten down by the Cross, and Pagan Rome has become Christian Rome. What revolutions time effects! His chariot wheels, as they roll along, drag down thrones and empires, and leave on their ruins a Christian Emperor and a Christian government. They roll on, and Christianity is stretched in the dust, and its fragments lie scattered over the wreck of its foe. They will still roll on, and another scene is to be displayed on the ruins of both, and more glorious than either. Ruins are piled on ruins till history seems but a record of overthrows. "Such is the moral of all human tales. "Tis but the same rehearsal of the past: And history with all her volumes vast," Hath but one page. 10 Affectionately yours. LETTER XXVI. Chanting of the Miserere. April. DEAR E.-One of the most impressive ceremonies of Holy Week is the chanting of the Miserere. Music is everywhere in this land of passion and pleasure. It bursts on you from the palace and the hovel-out of every house and every vineyard, and seems a part of the atmosphere, and to have almost the power to remove the curse of despotism itself. But to know the full effect of song and scenery together, one must hear the chanting of the Miserere in the Sistine Chapel of St. Peter's. That the Pope should select the best singers of the world for this service is not strange, but that he should with these be able to produce the effect he does is singular. The night on which our Savior is supposed to have died is selected for this service. The Sistine Chapel is divided in two parts by a high railing, one half being given to the spectators, and the other half reserved for the Pope, his cardinals and the choir. The whole is dimly lighted, to correspond with the gloom of the scene shadowed forth. This dim twilight falling over the motionless forms of priest and monk and cardinals, and the lofty frescoed arches, together with the awful silence that seemed hanging like a pall over all the scene, heightened inconceivably the effect to us. The ceremonies commenced with the chanting of the Lamentations. Thirteen candles, in the form of an erect triangle, were lighted up in the beginning, representing the different moral lights of the ancient church of Israel. One after another was extinguished as the chant proceeded, until the last and brightest one at the top, representing Christ, was put out. As they one by one slowly disappeared in the deepening gloom, a blacker night seemed gathering over the hopes and fate of man, and the lamen CHANTING OF THE MISERERE. 131 tation grew wilder and deeper. But as the Prophet of prophets, the Light, the Hope of the world, disappeared, the lament suddenly ceased. Not a sound was heard amid the deepening gloom. The catastrophe was too awful, and the shock too great to admit of speech. He who had been pouring his sorrowful notes over the departure of the good and great seemed struck suddenly dumb at this greatest wo. Stunned and stupified, he could not contemplate the mighty disaster. I never felt a heavier pressure on my heart than at this moment. The chapel was packed in every inch of it, even out of the door far back into the ample hall, and yet not a sound was heard. I could hear the breathing of the mighty multitude, and amid it the suppressed half-drawn sigh. Like the chanter, each man seemed to say, "Christ is gone, we are orphans—all orphans!" The silence at length became too painful. I thought I should shriek out in agony, when suddenly a low wail, so desolate and yet so sweet, so despairing and yet so tender, like the last strain of a broken heart, stole slowly out from the distant darkness and swelled over the throng, that the tears rushed unbidden to my eyes, and I could have wept like a child in sympathy. It then died away as if the grief were too great for the strain. Fainter, and fainter, like the dying tone of a lute, it sunk away as if the last sigh of sorrow was ended, when suddenly there burst through the arches a cry so piercing and shrill that it seemed not the voice of song, but the language of a wounded and dying heart in its last agonizing throb. The multitude swayed to it like the forest to the blast. Again it ceased, and the broken sobs of exhausted grief alone were heard. In a moment the whole choir joined their lament and seemed to weep with the weeper. After a few notes they paused again, and that sweet, melancholy voice mourned on alone. Its note is still in my ear. I wanted to see the singer. It seemed as if such sounds could come from nothing but a broken heart. Oh! how unlike the joyful, the triumphant anthem that swept through the same chapel on the morning that symbolized the resurrection. There is a story told of this Miserere, for the truth of which we can only refer to rumor. It is said that the Emperor of Austria sent to the Pope for a copy of the music, so that he could have it performed in his own cathedral. It was sent, as requested, but the effect of the performance was so indifferent that the emperor suspected a spurious copy had been imposed on him, and he wrote to his Holiness, intimating as much, and hinting also that he would find it for his interest to send him a true copy. The Pope wrote back that the music he had sent him was a genuine copy of the original, but that the little effect produced by it was owing to the want of the scenery, circumstances, &c., under which it was performed in St. Peter's. It may be so. The singer, too, is doubtless more than half. The power of a single voice is often wonderful. We remember an instance of this on Easter Sunday, as the procession was moving up and down the ample nave of St. Peter's, carrying the Pope on their shoulders as they marched. In the procession was a fat, stout monk, from the north of Italy, who sung the bass to the chant with which the choir heralded the approach of his Holiness. A band of performers stationed in a balcony at the farther end of the church was in full blast at the time, yet over it, and over the choir, and up through the heaven-seeking dome, that single voice swelled clear and distinct as if singing alone. It filled that immense building, through which were scattered nearly thirty thousand people, as easily as a common voice would fill an ordinary room. No where is music so spontaneous and voluntary as in Italy, and no where is it studied with such untiring and protracted effort. We might except the Germans here, who, perhaps, are as great composers as the Italians. But there is no song in the stern old Saxon heart. The sudden and exciting transitions of music are not found in their character. The free and fountain-like gushings forth of feeling in an Italian render him peculiarly fitted to enjoy and utter music, though we think this very trait in his character was formed in the first place by music. They have reacted on each other, making both the Italian and his music what they are. It is a singular fact that the best singers of Italy come from the northern provinces. The people of the south are more fiery and passionate, yet less distinguished for music, than those of the north. Nothing strikes the traveller in Italy with more force, or lives in his memory longer, than the gay street singing of the lower classes, yet one hears little of this in Rome or Naples. |