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.