Leo, from one of the devastated hills of Rome,—­once crowned with palaces, temples, and monuments,—­looked out upon the Christian world, and saw the desolation spoken of by Jeremy the prophet, as well as by the Cumaean sibyl:  all central power hopelessly prostrated; law and justice by-words; provinces wasted, decimated, and anarchical; literature and art crushed; vice, in all its hateful deformity, rampant and multiplying itself; false opinions gaining ground; Christians adopting the errors of Paganism; soldiers turned into banditti; the contemplative hiding themselves in caves and deserts; the rich made slaves; barbarians everywhere triumphant; women shrieking in terror; bishops praying in despair,—­a world disordered, a pandemonium of devils let loose, one terrific and howling mass of moral and physical desolation such as had never been seen since Noah entered into the ark.

Amid this dreary wreck of the old civilization, which had been supposed to be eternal, what were Leo’s designs and thoughts?  In this mournful crisis, what did he dream of in his sad and afflicted soul?  To flee into a monastery, as good men in general despair and wretchedness did, and patiently wait for the coming of his Lord, and for the new dispensation?  Not at all:  he contemplated the restoration of the eternal city,—­a new creation which should succeed destruction; the foundation of a new power which should restore law, preserve literature, subdue the barbarians, introduce a still higher civilization than that which had perished,—­not by bringing back the Caesars, but by making himself Caesar; a revived central power which the nations should respect and obey.  That which the world needed was this new central power, to settle difficulties, depose tyrants, establish a common standard of faith and worship, encourage struggling genius, and conserve peace.  Who but the Church could do this?  The Church was the last hope of the fallen Empire.  The Church should put forth her theocratic aspirations.  The keys of Saint Peter should be more potent than the sceptres of kings.  The Church should not be crushed in the general desolation.  She was still the mighty power of the world.  Christianity had taken hold of the hearts and minds of men, and raised its voice to console and encourage amid universal despair.  Men’s thoughts were turned to God and to his vicegerents.  He was mighty to save.  His promises were a glorious consolation.  The Church should arise, put on her beautiful garments, and go on from conquering to conquer.  A theocracy should restore civilization.  The world wanted a new Christian sovereign, reigning by divine right, not by armies, not by force,—­by an appeal to the future fears and hopes of men.  Force had failed:  it was divided against itself.  Barbaric chieftains defied the emperors and all temporal powers.  Rival generals desolated provinces.  The world was plunging into barbarism.  The imperial sceptre was broken.  Not a diadem, but a tiara, must be