lustre, and her absence and return may be considered as an event in this
monotonous scene.
Those men who exist thus, are nevertheless the same to whom war and all
its bustle would scarcely suffice if they had been brought up to it.
The different combinations of human destiny upon earth afford an
inexhaustible source of reflection. A thousand accidents pass, and a
thousand habits are formed in the interior of the soul, which make every
individual a world and the subject of a history. To know another
perfectly, would be the task of a whole life; what is it then that we
understand by knowing men? To govern them is practicable by human
wisdom, but to comprehend them belongs to God alone.
From the Carthusian monastery Oswald repaired to that of St Bonaventure,
built upon the ruins of the palace of Nero; there, where so many crimes
have been committed without remorse, poor monks, tormented by scruples
of conscience, impose upon themselves the most cruel punishment for the
slightest fault. "_Our only hope_," said one of these devotees, "_is
that at the hour of death our sins will not have exceeded our
penances_." Lord Nelville, as he entered this monastery struck his foot
against a trap, and asking the use of it - "_It leads to our place of
interment_;" said one of the young monks, who was already struck with
the malady caused by the malaria. The inhabitants of the south being
very much afraid of death, we are astonished to find institutions in
Italy which fix the ideas upon this point; but it is natural to be fond
of thoughts that inspire us with dread. There is, as it were, an
intoxication of sadness, which does good to the soul by occupying it
entirely.
An ancient Sarcophagus of a young child serves for the fountain to this
convent. The beautiful Palm-tree of which Rome boasts, is the only tree
of any sort in the garden of these monks; but they pay no attention to
external objects. Their discipline is too rigorous to allow any kind of
latitude to the mind. Their looks are cast down, their gait is slow,
they make no use of their will. They have abdicated the government of
themselves, _so fatiguing is this empire to its sad possessor_. This
day, however, did not produce much emotion in the soul of Oswald; the
imagination revolts at death, presented under all its various forms in a
manner so manifestly intentional. When we unexpectedly meet this
_memento mori_, when it is nature and not man that speaks to our soul,
the impression we receive is much deeper.
Oswald felt the most calm and gentle sensations when, at sunset, he
entered the garden of _San Giovanni e Paolo_. The monks of this
monastery are subjected to a much less rigid discipline, and their
garden commands a view of all the ruins of ancient Rome. From this spot
is seen the Coliseum, the Forum, and all the triumphal arches, the
obelisks, and the pillars which remain standing. What a fine situation
for such an asylum! The secluded monks are consoled for their own
nothingness, in contemplating the monuments raised by those who are no
more. Oswald strolled for a long time beneath the umbrageous walks of
this garden, whose beautiful trees sometimes interrupt for a moment the
view of Rome, only to redouble the emotion which is felt on beholding it
again. It was that hour of the evening, when all the bells in Rome are
heard chiming the _Ave Maria_.
- - - - - - - - squilla di lontano
Che paja il giorno pianger che si muore.
DANTE.
- - - - - - - - _the vesper bell from far,
That seems to mourn for the expiring day._
CAREY'S TR.
The evening prayer is used to fix the time. In Italy they say: _I will
see you an hour before, or an hour after the Ave Maria_: and the
different periods of the day and of the night, are thus religiously
designated. Oswald enjoyed the admirable spectacle of the sun which
towards the evening descends slowly in the midst of the ruins, and
appears for a moment submitted to the same destiny as the works of man.
Oswald felt all his habitual thoughts revive within him. Corinne herself
was too charming, and promised too much happiness to occupy his mind at
this moment. He sought the spirit of his father in the clouds, where the
force of imagination traced his celestial form, and made him hope to
receive from heaven some pure and beneficent breath, as the benediction
of his sainted parent.
Chapter ii.
The desire of studying and becoming acquainted with the Roman religion,
determined Lord Nelville to seek an opportunity of hearing some of those
preachers who make the churches of this city resound with their
eloquence during Lent. He reckoned the days that were to divide him from
Corinne, and during her absence, he wished to see nothing that
appertained to the fine arts; nothing that derived its charm from the
imagination. He could not support the emotion of pleasure produced by
the masterpieces of art when he was not with Corinne; he was only
reconciled to happiness when she was the cause of it. Poetry, painting,
music, all that embellishes life by vague hopes, was painful to him out
of her presence.
It is in the evening, with lights half extinguished, that the Roman
preachers deliver their sermons in Holy Week. All the women are then
clad in black, in remembrance of the death of Jesus Christ, and there is
something very moving in this anniversary mourning, which has been so
often renewed during a lapse of ages. It is therefore impossible to
enter without genuine emotion those beautiful churches, where the tombs
so fitly dispose the soul for prayer; but this emotion is generally
destroyed in a few moments by the preacher.
His pulpit is a fairly long gallery, which he traverses from one end to
the other with as much agitation as regularity. He never fails to set
out at the beginning of a phrase and to return at the end, like the
motion of a pendulum; nevertheless he uses so much action, and his
manner is so vehement, that one would suppose him capable of forgetting
everything. But it is, to use the expression, a kind of systematic fury
that animates the orator, such as is frequently to be met with in Italy,
where the vivacity of external action often indicates no more than a
superficial emotion. A crucifix is suspended at the extremity of the
pulpit; the preacher unties it, kisses it, presses it against his heart,
and then restores it to its place with the greatest coolness, when the
pathetic period is concluded. There is a means of producing effect which
the ordinary preachers frequently have recourse to, namely, the square
cap they wear on their head, which they take off, and put on again with
inconceivable rapidity. One of them imputed to Voltaire, and
particularly to Rousseau, the irreligion of the age. He threw his cap
into the middle of the pulpit, charging it to represent Jean Jacques,
and in this quality he harangued it, saying; "_Well, philosopher of
Geneva, what have you to object to my arguments_?" He was silent for
some minutes as if he waited for a reply - the cap made no answer: he
then put it upon his head again and finished the conversation in these
words: "_now that you are convinced I shall say no more_."
These whimsical scenes are often repeated among the Roman preachers; for
real talent in this department is here very scarce. Religion is
respected in Italy as an omnipotent law; it captivates the imagination
by its forms and ceremonies, but moral tenets are less attended to in
the pulpit than dogmas of faith, which do not penetrate the heart with
religious sentiments. Thus the eloquence of the pulpit, as well as
several other branches of literature, is absolutely abandoned to common
ideas, which neither paint nor express any thing. A new thought would
cause almost a panic in those minds at once so indolent and so full of
ardour that they need the calm of uniformity, which they love because it
offers repose to their thoughts. The ideas and phraseology of their
sermons are confined to a sort of etiquette. They follow almost in a
regular sequence, and this order would be disturbed if the orator,
speaking from himself, were to seek in his own mind what he should say.
The Christian philosophy, whose aim is to discover the analogy between
religion and human nature, is as little known to the Italian preachers
as any other kind of philosophy. To think upon matters of religion would
scandalise them as much as to think against it; so much are they
accustomed to move in a beaten track.
The worship of the Blessed Virgin is particularly dear to the Italians,
and to every other nation of the south; it seems in some manner united
with all that is most pure and tender in the affection we feel for
woman. But the same exaggerated figures of rhetoric are found in what
the preachers say upon this subject; and it is impossible to conceive
why their gestures do not turn all that is most serious into mockery.
Hardly ever in Italy do we meet in the august function of the pulpit,
with a true accent or a natural expression.
Oswald, weary of the most tiresome of all monotony - that of affected
vehemence, went to the Coliseum, to hear the Capuchin who was to preach
there in the open air, at the foot of one of those altars which mark
out, within the enclosure, what is called _the Stations of the Cross_.
What can offer a more noble subject of eloquence than the aspect of this
monument, of this amphitheatre, where the martyrs have succeeded to the
gladiators! But nothing of this kind must be expected from the poor
Capuchin, who, of the history of mankind, knows no more than that of his
own life. Nevertheless, if we could be insensible to the badness of his
discourse, we should feel ourselves moved by the different objects that
surround him. The greater part of his auditors are of the confraternity
of the _Camaldoli_; they are clad during their religious exercises in a
sort of grey robe, which entirely covers the head and the whole body,
with two little holes for the eyes. It is thus that the spirits of the
dead might be represented. These men, who are thus concealed beneath
their vestments, prostrate themselves on the earth and strike their
breasts. When the preacher throws himself on his knees crying for _mercy
and pity_, the congregation throw themselves on their knees also, and
repeat this same cry, which dies away beneath the ancient porticoes of
the Coliseum. It is impossible at this moment not to feel the most
religious emotion; this appeal from earthly misery to celestial good,
penetrates to the inmost sanctuary of the soul. Oswald started when all
the audience fell on their knees; he remained standing, not to join in a
worship foreign to his own; but it was painful to him that he could not
associate publicly with mortals of any description, who prostrated
themselves before God. Alas! is there an invocation of heavenly pity
that is not equally suited to all men?
The people had been struck with the fine figure and foreign manners of
Lord Nelville, but were by no means scandalized at his not kneeling
down. There are no people in the world more tolerant than the Romans;
they are accustomed to visitors who come only to see and observe; and
whether by an effect of pride or of indolence, they never seek to instil
their opinions into others. What is more extraordinary still, is, that
during Holy Week particularly, there are many among them who inflict
corporal punishment upon themselves; and while they are performing this
flagellation, the church-doors are open, and they care not who enters.
They are a people who do not trouble their heads about others; they do
nothing to be looked at; they refrain from nothing because they are
observed; they always proceed to their object, and seek their pleasure
without suspecting that there is a sentiment called vanity, which has no
object, no pleasure, except the desire of being applauded.
Chapter iii.
The ceremonies of Holy Week at Rome have been much spoken of. Foreigners
come thither during Lent expressly to enjoy this spectacle; and as the
music of the Sixtine Chapel and the illumination of St Peter's are
beauties unique in themselves, it is natural that they should excite a
lively curiosity; but expectation is not equally satisfied. The
ceremonies themselves, properly speaking - the dinner of the twelve
Apostles, served by the Pope, the washing of the feet by him, and all
the different customs of this solemn season - excite very moving
recollections; but a thousand inevitable circumstances often injure the
interest and the dignity of this spectacle. All those who assist at it
are not equally devout, equally occupied with pious ideas. These
ceremonies, so often repeated, have become a sort of mechanical exercise
for most people, and the young priests despatch the service of great
festivals with an activity and a dexterity little calculated to produce
any religious effect. That indefinite, that unknown, that mysterious
impression, which religion ought to excite, is entirely destroyed by
that species of attention which we cannot help paying to the manner in
which each acquits himself of his functions. The avidity of some for the
meats presented them, and the indifference of others in the
genuflections which they multiply and the prayers which they recite,
often strip the festival of its solemnity.
The ancient costumes which still serve for the vestments of the priests,
agree badly with the modern style of treating the hair. The Greek
bishop, with his long beard, has the most respectable appearance. The
ancient custom also of making a reverence after the manner of women,
instead of bowing as men do now, produces an impression by no means
serious. In a word, the _ensemble_ is not in harmony, and the ancient is
blended with the modern without sufficient care being taken to strike
the imagination, or at least to avoid all that may distract it. A
worship, dazzling and majestic in its external forms, is certainly
calculated to fill the soul with the most elevated sentiments; but care
must be taken that the ceremonies do not degenerate into a spectacle in
which each one plays his part - in which each one studies what he must do
at such a moment; when he is to pray, when he is to finish his prayer;
when to kneel down, and when to get up. The regulated ceremonies of a
court introduced into a temple of devotion, confine the free movement of
the heart, which can alone give man the hope of drawing near to the
Deity.
These observations are pretty generally felt by foreigners, but the
Romans for the most part do not grow weary of those ceremonies; and
every year they find in them new pleasure. A singular trait in the
character of the Italians is, that their mobility does not make them
inconstant, nor does their vivacity render variety necessary to them.
They are in every thing patient and persevering; their imagination
embellishes what they possess; it occupies their life instead of
rendering it uneasy; they think every thing more magnificent, more
imposing, more fine, than it really is: and whilst in other nations
vanity consists in an affectation of boredom, that of the Italians, or
rather their warmth and vivacity, makes them find pleasure in the
sentiment of admiration.
Lord Nelville, from all that the Romans had said to him, expected to be
more affected by the ceremonies of Holy Week. He regretted the noble and
simple festivals of the Anglican church. He returned home with a
painful impression; for nothing is more sad than not being moved by that
which ought to move us; we believe that our soul is become dry, we fear
that the fire of enthusiasm is extinguished in us, without which the
faculty of thinking can only serve to disgust us with life.
Chapter iv.
But Good Friday soon restored to Lord Nelville all those religious
emotions, the want of which he so much regretted on the preceding days.
The seclusion of Corinne was about to terminate; he anticipated the
happiness of seeing her again: the sweet expectations of tender
affection accord with piety; it is only a factious, worldly life, that
is entirely hostile to it. Oswald repaired to the Sixtine Chapel to hear
the celebrated _miserere_, so much talked of all over Europe. He arrived
thither whilst it was yet day, and beheld those celebrated paintings of
Michael Angelo, which represent the Last Judgment, with all the terrible
power of the subject and the talent which has handled it. Michael Angelo
was penetrated with the study of Dante; and the painter, in imitation of
the poet, represents mythological beings in the presence of Jesus
Christ; but he always makes Paganism the evil principle, and it is under
the form of demons that he characterises the heathen fables. On the
vault of the chapel are represented the prophets, and the sybils called
in testimony by the Christians,
Teste David cum Sibyllâ.
A crowd of angels surround them; and this whole vault, painted thus,
seems to bring us nearer to heaven, but with a gloomy and formidable
aspect. Hardly does daylight penetrate the windows, which cast upon the
pictures shadow rather than light. The obscurity enlarges those figures,
already so imposing, which the pencil of Michael Angelo has traced; the
incense, whose perfume has a somewhat funereal character, fills the air
in this enclosure, and every sensation is prelusive to the most profound
of all - that which the music is to produce.
Whilst Oswald was absorbed by the reflections which every object that
surrounded him gave birth to, he saw Corinne, whose presence he had not
hoped to behold so soon, enter the women's gallery, behind the grating
which separated it from that of the men. She was dressed in black, all
pale with absence, and trembled so when she perceived Oswald, that she
was obliged to lean on the balustrade for support as she advanced; at
this moment the _miserere_ began.
The voices, perfectly trained in this ancient song, proceeded from a
gallery at the commencement of the vault; the singers are not seen; the
music seems to hover in the air; and every instant the fall of day
renders the chapel more gloomy. It was not that voluptuous and
impassioned music which Oswald and Corinne had heard eight days before;
they were holy strains which counselled mortals to renounce every
earthly enjoyment. Corinne fell on her knees before the grating and
remained plunged in the most profound meditation. Oswald himself
disappeared from her sight. She thought that in such a moment one could
wish to die, if the separation of the soul from the body could take
place without pain; if, on a sudden, an angel could carry away on his
wings our sentiments and our thoughts - sparks of ethereal fire,
returning towards their source: death would then be, to use the
expression, only a spontaneous act of the heart, a more ardent and more
acceptable prayer.
The _miserere_, that is to say, _have mercy on us_, is a psalm,
composed of verses, which are sung alternately in a very different
manner. A celestial music is heard by turns, and the verse following, in
recitative, is murmured in a dull and almost hoarse tone. One would say,
that it is the reply of harsh and stern characters to sensitive hearts;
that it is the reality of life which withers and repels the desires of
generous souls. When the sweet choristers resume their strain, hope
revives; but when the verse of recitative begins, a cold sensation
seizes upon the hearer, not caused by terror, but by a repression of
enthusiasm. At length, the last piece, more noble and affecting than all
the others, leaves a pure and sweet impression upon the soul: may God
vouchsafe that same impression to us before we die.
The torches are extinguished; night advances, and the figures of the
prophets and the sybils appear like phantoms enveloped in twilight. The
silence is profound; a word spoken would be insupportable in the then
state of the soul, when all is intimate and internal; as soon as the
last sound expires, all depart slowly and without the least noise; each
one seems to dread the return to the vulgar interests of the world.
Corinne followed the procession, which repaired to the temple of St
Peter, then lighted only by an illuminated cross. This sign of grief,
alone and shining in the august obscurity of this immense edifice, is
the most beautiful image of Christianity in the midst of the darkness of
life. A pale and distant light is cast on the statues which adorn the
tombs. The living, who are perceived in crowds beneath these vaults,
seem like pigmies, compared with the images of the dead. There is around
the cross, a space which it lights up, where the Pope clad in white is
seen prostrate, with all the cardinals ranged behind him. They remain
there for half an hour in the most profound silence, and it is
impossible not to be moved at this spectacle. We know not the subject
of their prayers; we hear not their secret groanings; but they are old,
they precede us in the journey to the tomb. When we in our turn pass
into that terrible advance guard, may God by his grace so ennoble our
age, that the decline of life may be the first days of immortality!
Corinne, also, - the young and beautiful Corinne, - was kneeling behind
the train of priests, and the soft light reflected on her countenance,
gave it a pale hue, without diminishing the lustre of her eyes. Oswald
contemplated her as a beautiful picture - a being that inspired
adoration. When her prayer was concluded she arose. Lord Nelville dared
not yet approach her, respecting the religious meditation in which he
thought her plunged; but she came to him first with a transport of
happiness; and this sentiment pervading all her actions, she received
with a most lively gaiety, all those who accosted her in St Peter's,
which had become, all at once, a great public promenade, and a
rendezvous to discuss topics of business or pleasure.
Oswald was astonished at this mobility which caused such opposite
impressions to succeed each other; and though the gaiety of Corinne gave
him pleasure, he was surprised to find in her no trace of the emotions
of the day. He did not conceive how, upon so solemn, a day, they could
permit this fine church to be converted into a Roman _café_, where
people met for pleasure; and beholding Corinne in the midst of her
circle, talking with so much vivacity, and not thinking on the objects
that surrounded her, he conceived a sentiment of mistrust as to the
levity of which she might be capable. She instantly perceived it, and
quitting her company abruptly, she took the arm of Oswald to walk with
him in the church, saying, "I have never held any conversation with you
upon my religious sentiments - permit me to speak a little upon that
subject now; perhaps I shall be able to dissipate those clouds which I
perceive rising in your mind."
Chapter v.
"The difference of our religions, my dear Oswald," continued Corinne,
"is the cause of that secret censure which you cannot conceal from me.
Yours is serious and rigid - ours, cheerful and tender. It is generally
believed that Catholicism is more rigorous than Protestantism; and that
may be true in a country where a struggle has subsisted between the two
religions; but we have no religious dissensions in Italy, and you have
experienced much of them in England. The result of this difference is,
that Catholicism in Italy has assumed a character of mildness and
indulgence; and that to destroy it in England, the Reformation has armed
itself with the greatest severity in principles and morals. Our
religion, like that of the ancients, animates the arts, inspires the
poets, and becomes a part, if I may so express it, of all the joys of
our life; whilst yours, establishing itself in a country where reason
predominates more than imagination, has assumed a character of moral
austerity which will never leave it. Ours speaks in the name of love,
and yours in the name of duty. Our principles are liberal, our dogmas
are absolute; nevertheless, our despotic orthodoxy accommodates itself
to particular circumstances, and your religious liberty enforces
obedience to its laws without any exception. It is true that our
Catholicism imposes very hard penance upon those who have embraced a
monastic life. This state, freely chosen, is a mysterious relation
between man and the Deity; but the religion of laymen in Italy is an
habitual source of affecting emotions. Love, hope, and faith, are the
principal virtues of this religion, and all these virtues announce and
confer happiness. Our priests therefore, far from forbidding at any time
the pure sentiment of joy, tell us that it expresses our gratitude