by Catholic nations, where any extraordinary exertion of authority is ventured upon. Enough of superstition and of pomp still remains connected with St Peter's, though it is now comparatively harmless. In the church of St Peter, on Easter Monday, a grand ceremony is annually witnessed. The Pope himself assists at high mass, and the scene is thus described by the author of Rome in the Nineteenth Century :' "The church is lined with the guarda nobile, in their splendid uniforms of gold and scarlet, and nodding plumes of white ostrich feathers, and the Swiss guards with their polished cuirasses and steel helmets. The great centre aisle is kept clear by a double wall of armed men, for the grand procession, the approach of which is proclaimed by the sound of trumpet from the farther end of the church. Priests advance, loaded with still augmenting magnificence as they ascend to the higher orders. Cloth of gold, and embroidery of gold and silver, and crimson velvet, and mantles of spotted ermine, and flow ing trains, and attendant train-bearers, and mitres and crucifixes glittering with jewels, and priests and patriarchs, and bishops and cardinals dazzle the eye, and fill the whole length of St Peter's. Lastly comes the Pope in his crimson chair of state, borne on the shoulders of twenty palfrenieri, arrayed in robes of white, and wearing the tiara, or triple crown of the conjoined Trinity, with a canopy of cloth of silver floating over his head, preceded by two men, carrying enormous fans, composed of large plumes of ostrich feathers mounted on long gilded wands. He stops to pay his adorations to the miraculous Madonna in her chapel, about half-way up; and this duty, which he never omits, being performed, he is slowly borne past the high altar, liberally giving his benediction with the twirl of the three fingers as he passes. "He is then set down upon a magnificent stool in front of the altar, on which he kneels, and his crown being taken off, and the cardinals taking off their little red caps, and all kneeling in a row, he assumes the attitude of praying. Having remained a few minutes he is taken to a chair prepared for him to the right of the throne. There he reads from a book, and is again taken to the altar, on which his tiara has been placed; and, bareheaded, he repeats-or as, by courtesy, it is called, sings-a small part of the service, throws up clouds of incense, and is removed to the crimson-canopied throne. High mass is celebrated by a cardinal and two bishops, at which he assists. During the service the Italians seem to consider it quite as much of a pageant as foreigners, but neither a new nor an interesting one; they either walk about and talk, or interchange pinches of snuff with each other, exactly as if it had been a place of amusement, until the tinkling of a little bell, which announces the elevation of the host, changes the scene. Every knee is now bent to the earth, and every voice hushed; the reversed arms of the military ring with an instantaneous clang on the marble pavement as they sink on the ground, and all is still as death. This does not last above two minutes till the host is swallowed. Thus begins and ends the only part that bears even the smallest outward aspect of religion. The military now pour before its spacious front, behind which the out of St Peter's and form an extensive ring horse guards are drawn up, and an immense number of carriages, filled with splendidly dressed women, and thousands of people on foot, are assembled. Yet the multitude almost shrunk into insignificance in the vast curiosity collect sufficient numbers to fill it. area of the piazza; and neither piety nor The tops of the colonnades all round, however, are thronged with spectators; and it is a curious sight to see a mixture of all ranks and to the poor cripple who crawls along the nations-from the coronetted heads of kings, pavement, assembled together to await the blessing of their fellow mortal. Not the least picturesque figures among the throng are the contadini, who, in every variety of curious villages, to receive the blessing of the holy costume, flock in from their distant mountain father, and whose bright and eager counteto the balcony where the pope is to appear. nances, shaded by their long dark hair, turn fans, the forerunners of his approach, are At length the two white ostrich-feather seen; and he is borne forward on his throne above the shoulders of the cardinals and bishops, who fill the balcony. After an audible prayer he arises, and elevating his hands to heaven, invokes a solemn benediction upon the multitude and the people committed to his charge. Every head uncovers; the soldiers, and many of the spectators, kneel on given with impressive solemnity, but with the pavement to receive the blessing. It is little of gesture or parade. Immediately the thundering of cannon from the castle of St Angelo, and the peal of bells from St Peter's, proclaim the joyful tidings. The pope is borne out, and the people rise from their knees.” It is proper to add, the interior of St Peter's, of which an engraving is annexed, is in happy keeping with its external magnificence. "So admirable," says an architectural contemporary, 66 are all the proportions of this building, and so wonderfully adapted are the ornaments, that the first view of St Peter's seldom excites astonishment; it is only when the details are entered upon that this feeling bursts upon the mind. Thirteen chapels are contained within, each boasting works of art of the greatest men that have lived in the tide of time. In the first chapel stands the work of Michael Angelo, the Statue of Piety;' and there is situate the tomb of Christina of Sweden.' In the second chapel is one of the great masterpieces of the world, St Sebastian,' by Domenichino. In the third chapel is 'St Jerome,' by Domenichino; 'the Deposition,' by Caravaggio. In the fourth is a Mosaic,' by Pietro Subleyras, of exquisite workmanship. The fifth contains the Erasmus of Poussin.' The sixth the St Petronilla of Guercino' RELICS OF LONDON.-No. XV. IF an ancient ruin be interesting to the eye of the antiquary, suggesting to him a hundred pleasing reflections and exciting vague speculations as to its origin and purpose, how welcome is the rude inscrip tion or coarse sculpture which throws light upon local history. How anxiously is each obliterated figure traced-how careful is the examination of each defaced initial. The lost outline is restored by fancy; word after word is discovered; and at length the triumph of the antiquary is complete-the entire inscription is deciphered. But there are few of our city inscriptions which require such close examination. They are cut deep and indelible in stone tablets, and, save the rather antiquated fashion of the letters, might be mistaken, at a cursory glance, for announcements of the "whereabouts" of the nearest fire plug, or topographical description of the extent and boundaries of some private freehold -landmarks often to be met with in the city. There is nothing venerable about them; they are unconnected with any interesting ruin; their origin too obscure to have been preserved, and the buildings, of which they at one time formed part, swept away and forgotten. We closed our last pilgrimage at Dolly's Beef-steak House, and from the same spot we may commence the present by noticing the inscription which attracts our atten tion as we pass through Pannier alley. Seated on a pannier (which gives name to the thoroughfare) is a naked boy, probably Bacchus, holding under his heel a bunch of grapes. Beneath this sculpture is the couplet "WHEN YV HAVE SOUGHT THE CITTY ROVND This tablet is supposed to have been the sign of a tavern which probably occupied the site previous to the great fire, as Stowe, in his Survey, mentioning "Panyar alley," adds "called of such a sign." It is at present fixed in the wall of a house, two or three feet above the footpath. By some this figure has been considered emblematic of plenty, and is believed to have once held in its hands a bunch of grapes; but Hughson supposes it the sign of one "Henry Prannel, citizen and vintner." Pennant imagines it to have been originally a sepulchral monument removed from some adjoining church, but, from the peculiar appropriateness of the inscription, it is probable it still retains its original position. Traversing "the Row," and passing through Warwick lane, so called from its having been the residence of the Earls of Warwick, we may find another inscription at the Newgate street extremity. It is a stone tablet embedded in the side wall of a shop at about the height of the firstfloor windows; and bears a full-length effigy of Guy, Earl of Warwick, with the date 1668 at the top, and the initials "C. C." at the side. Beneath the original sculpture is the modern addition," Restored 1817. I. Deykes, Architect. Pennant's London, 4th Edition, 492." The resemblance between this sculpture and the miniature of the Earl in Guy's Cliff Chapel is said to be very striking. On the opposite side of Newgate street, and over the entrance to Bull Head court, is a third tablet of stone, on which are represented William Evans, the giant porter of Charles I, and by his side, in ludicrous contrast, Geoffrey Hudson, the King's dwarf. The stone also bears the inscription "M. P. A. The King's Porter and Dwarf." The wall in which it is fixed appears to be coeval with the tablet, and is built of the red bricks of the seventeenth century. In the front wall of No. 6 Lower Thames street is another stone tablet, on which is finely carved the figure of a bear, to the neck of which is attached a long chain, and in the foliage which surmounts it, the date may be detected - 1670. This piece of sculpture is supposed to have been the sign of some ancient inn, but is at present fixed in the front wall of a recently built wharf. "Well," she replied, "to-morrow or the next day you shall have the explanation. But how could you possibly have been hitherto so blind ?" "Another riddle!" I exclaimed. "Unbeliever!" said she, "he faints in the wood, and knows not that I have long loved him!" "Rosa!" I exclaimed, startled with delight. She suffered the embrace and the kiss, and then said joyously, "Now, good night, and mind you sleep soundly." She hastened forwards, and once turned round to wave her hand. from me, and, as if to annoy me, almost always appeared with some French author in her hand. It was some days before I again had an opportunity of speaking alone and confidentially with my beloved Rosa. She was as merry as usual, and laughed at my embarrassment. She was glad that I felt so happy, but derided my ecstasy, which knew not how to express itself. In conversation it was with difficulty that I could restrain my tears, and everything, even the most trifling matters that she uttered, moved me inexpressibly. We entered the garden and seated ourselves in the arbour. The family was paying a visit, so that we could reckon on being long undisturbed. After some time, Rosa said, "I hope Lidia is now quite safe from the attempts of that wretched man. She perceives her error, and has faithfully, and with tears, promised to inform me of anything further that may arise. My letter seems to have frightened away the officer, since he fears the arrival of my passionate father, who will not remain away much longer." I was startled by the last words. "O, dearest Rosa," I exclaimed, “what can we hope from your father ?" "Little or nothing," she replied; "he is the most passionate of men, and what he has once determined no power on earth can drive him from." "And he would not countenance our love?" I asked timidly. "My dear Ferdinand," answered Rosa, "he sent yonder old Marquis here with full permission to seek amongst us sisters the one who would best suit him as a wife. Much as I kept in the background, much as I acted the prude, and capricious as I appeared, still the old fellow was better pleased with me than with my sisters, and I am the chosen one. I have also already observed that the cavalier, who does everything in the most regular manner, has informed my father of his choice and determination. Alas! dear Ferdinand, life is a variegated, merry, contrary thing; and if it often presses so heavily on you men that you scream from the pain of the wounds, it presses us women even unto death. "O Rosa," said I, "how novel is all this to me, that I belong to you, and you acknowledge my love, that you comprehend my nature, that you will be mine." She did not withdraw from my embrace, and only said: "But how distant everything seems. If you are what I take you for, you will perhaps find ways and means to effect that which appears to me impossible. I have observed that the suit which was the occasion of my father's going to Italy has not proceeded as he wished; if, therefore, you are not richer than the Marquis, my father will always be opposed to you, exclusive of his having already given his word to the old fright.' An hour or two passed in conversations of the like nature, and at length I asked: "What did you mean lately, dearest, with your Wickliffe and Huss ?" She laughed and said, after a pause: "Forgive me if I perhaps vex you; but from the first day it struck me as being ridiculous that you should hope to make a proselyte of my sister Jenny, and explain to her the beauties of the German literature. Good and kind as the girl is, she never had much inclination for books. We had taken it into our heads that the Germans, although they possessed a great king and a great general in their Frederick, could not boast of any poet. Then you arrived-a fine, well-dressed, talkative sentimentalist, with your German books. I spoke, I scolded, I fought for my Frenchmen, with whom, in spite of their polished language, my time passed very tediously. You commenced your reading, and I heard at a distance, often only in passing through the room, single lines, words, passages." That which I heard was unlike every. thing I had formerly been acquainted with. And your enthusiasm! "Proceed," said I, sunning myself in her beautiful eyes. 66 "Yes," she continued, blushing, "was it astonishing that, at first, Huss would not read the writings of Wickliffe, that he avoided them with the greatest abhorrence, and afterwards could not otherwise satiate his admiration of and enthusiasm for the same, than by suffering himself to be burnt at the stake for those very doctrines which he had at first cursed. One should avoid hatred as much as violent love, for how often is it only a concealed love, which does not yet know itself. In the night I stole the books from my sister, which she read without understanding them, and—” "What ails you, dearest?" I inquired tenderly, as the beautiful girl suddenly burst into tears. 66 "Let me be, Ferdinand," she replied, my heart is too full. I knew not, I could not have thought it possible, that such poetry existed in the language as your admired Goethe displays. I could almost laugh as I picture to myself how drily Jenny sat before his pages; they might just as well have contained Chinese characters. And you seated next her! so enthusiastic, so good-naturedly explaining, and endeavouring to impress the sense, which cannot be expressed in words, upon her torpid mind. Without knowing or remarking it, my undying love glided from the poet to his illustrator. There is nothing more beautiful, more touching, than a noble mind knowing, in its youthful enthusiasm, no higher task than imparting to others that which completely fills his intoxicated heart, and making them participators in the happiness he himself experiences. Shall I confess it, Ferdinand, it was this that won my heart. You heard; you saw me not; you regarded all, even the most absurd things that I said to you, as earnest, and punished me, although not with words, with looks which seemed to despise my littleness. Each day you became dearer to me, but I avoided letting you perceive it. I was too proud, and used every exertion not to betray myself. You might have thought that my admiration of your poet was intended to storm your heart, although it would have pleased you had I given vent to all that I thought of your favourite, especially as I saw how much you strove to convert Jenny, who is incapable of all belief." Thus we at length understood each other. It pleases, and at the same time agonizes me, to recal all this. Those happy days seem to return and greet me sorrowfully. After many conversations, plans, and doubts, I at length resolved to apply to the uncle in Rolle, who was kind and friendly, and quite enraged at the idea of Rosa being sacrificed to the old worn-out Marquis. Rosa went to visit him under the pretence of a change of air. Under his protection we were wedded, and the marriage was kept secret; even the mother knew nothing of it. O! those heavenly days and weeks! Nephew, the whole relation of this history has deeply moved me. I cannot detail my misfortune circumstantially; it is strange that I could have gone so far. The excuses which had delayed Rosa's stay in Rolle were at length quite exhausted. She was forced to return, and I accompanied her. The magnificent lake, the view of Nyon in the clearest and finest weather, all appeared dull and colourless. The nearer we approached home the heavier became my heart. With what feelings did I regard the mother! But how did my brain whirl, as, on the following day, Lidia had vanished. She had fled with the drunken officer, who had found means to see her again, and to rekindle her passion. I appeared to my self, with my overwhelming secret, to be no better than that wretched man, whom I had so heartily despised. The father returned. A violent charac Of ter, who stormed at everything, and even allowed himself to be worked into a fury by trifles. Should we discover ourselves to him, who never listened to reason? what use was it that I was independent, possessed of property, and the descendant of an old and good family? All this had had its effect on the mild uncle, as he saw our love and passion; but the untractable brother took no heed of this. He stormed and raved, and his customary, irrational anger was more violent, as he had lost his suit, and consequently been a heavy sufferer by it. Rosa was locked up, all access to her denied me, and no notice taken of a most grievous letter from me. I sought for comfort and help in Rolle, and wished to make use of the authorities, or carry away my wife by stealth or force from her father's house. We proposed many plans, and took counsel of many noted lawyers. We had arranged everything; the uncle accompanied me; but, on reaching the house, it was closed. House and grounds had been hastily sold under the price, and the family had gone, no one knew whither. My distress threw me on a sick bed, Weeks and months passed; the old man tended me as though I had been his son. As my senses began to be restored I was so weak that all that had happened apIn this shadowy peared like a dream. state of existence the worthy old man ventured to communicate to me the contents of a letter, which in the mean time he had secretly received from the mother. She was afraid, on account of her husband's anger, to name the place where she lived; but Rosa had died of grief and despair, and the old Marquis had married Jenny. Lidia and her husband had returned to the paternal abode and been forgiven. I longed for death, but the torpid state of all the springs of life saved me. Man can endure much. Great as was my agony, I still reflect with pleasure on those weeks, the most delightful of my life. Lord Chief Justice Holt.-When Holt was Lord Chief Justice he committed some enthusiasts to prison. The next day one Lacy went to his house and asked to speak with him, asserting that he was sent by the Lord. When he had obtained admittance, "I come," said he, "from the Lord, commanding thee to grant a noli prosequi to his faithful servants whom thou hast committed to prison."-"Thou can'st not certainly have come from the Lord," replied Holt, "for he would have sent thee to the Attorney-General, knowing very well I cannot grant thy command. Thou art a false prophet, and shall go and keep thy friends company in prison." |