he marshaled the ladies before him, and won them early entrance through the crowd of English people crushing one another at the door.  Then he laid hold upon the captain of the Swiss Guard, who was swift to provide them with the best places; and in nowise did he seem one of the uninfluential and insignificant priests that About describes the archbishops at Rome to be.  According to this lively author, a Swiss guard was striking back the crowd on some occasion with the butt of his halberd, and smote a cardinal on the breast.  He instantly dropped upon his knees, with “Pardon, Eminenza!  I thought it was a monsignore!” Even the chief of these handsome fellows had nothing but respect and obedience for our Archbishop.

The gentlemen present were separated from the ladies, and in a very narrow space outside of the chapel men of every nation were penned up together.  All talked—­several priests as loudly as the rest.  But the rudest among them were certain Germans, who not only talked but stood upon a seat to see better, and were ordered down by one of the Swiss with a fierce “Giu, signore, giu!” Otherwise the guard kept good order in the chapel, and were no doubt as useful and genuine as any thing about the poor old Pope.  What gorgeous fellows they were, and, as soldiers, how absurd!  The weapons they bore were as obsolete as the excommunication.  It was amusing to pass one of these play-soldiers on guard at the door of the Vatican—­tall, straight, beautiful, superb, with his halberd on his shoulder—­and then come to a real warrior outside, a little, ugly, red-legged French sentinel, with his Minie on his arm.

Except for the singing of the Pope’s choir—­which was angelically sweet, and heavenly far above all praise—­the religious ceremonies affected me, like all others of that faith, as tedious and empty.  Each of the cardinals, as he entered the chapel, blew a sonorous nose; and was received standing by his brother prelates—­a grotesque company of old-womanish old men in gaudy gowns.  One of the last to come was Antonelli, who has the very wickedest face in the world.  He sat with his eyes fastened upon his book, but obviously open at every pore to all that went on about him.  As he passed out he cast gleaming, terrible, sidelong looks upon the people, full of hate and guile.

From where I stood I saw the Pope’s face only in profile:  it was gentle and benign enough, but not great in expression, and the smile on it almost degenerated into a simper.  His Holiness had a cold; and his recitative, though full, was not smooth.  He was all priest when, in the midst of the service, he hawked, held his handkerchief up before his face, a little way off, and ruthlessly spat in it!

FORZA MAGGIORE.