behind the altar, and began to descend the nave; the four first carrying a Virgin and child upon a table.  The priests and choristers arose from their knees and followed after, singing ’Ave Mary’ as they went.  In this order they made the circuit of the cathedral, passing twice before me where I leaned against a pillar.  The priest who seemed of most consequence was a strange, down-looking old man.  He kept mumbling prayers with his lips; but as he looked upon me darkling, it did not seem as if prayer were uppermost in his heart.  Two others, who bore the burthen of the chaunt, were stout, brutal, military-looking men of forty, with bold, over-fed eyes; they sang with some lustiness, and trolled forth ‘Ave Mary’ like a garrison catch.  The little girls were timid and grave.  As they footed slowly up the aisle, each one took a moment’s glance at the Englishman; and the big nun who played marshal fairly stared him out of countenance.  As for the choristers, from first to last they misbehaved as only boys can misbehave; and cruelly marred the performance with their antics.

I understood a great deal of the spirit of what went on.  Indeed it would be difficult not to understand the Miserere, which I take to be the composition of an atheist.  If it ever be a good thing to take such despondency to heart, the Miserere is the right music, and a cathedral a fit scene.  So far I am at one with the Catholics:- an odd name for them, after all?  But why, in God’s name, these holiday choristers? why these priests who steal wandering looks about the congregation while they feign to be at prayer? why this fat nun, who rudely arranges her procession and shakes delinquent virgins by the elbow? why this spitting, and snuffing, and forgetting of keys, and the thousand and one little misadventures that disturb a frame of mind laboriously edified with chaunts and organings?  In any play-house reverend fathers may see what can be done with a little art, and how, to move high sentiments, it is necessary to drill the supernumeraries and have every stool in its proper place.

One other circumstance distressed me.  I could bear a Miserere myself, having had a good deal of open-air exercise of late; but I wished the old people somewhere else.  It was neither the right sort of music nor the right sort of divinity for men and women who have come through most accidents by this time, and probably have an opinion of their own upon the tragic element in life.  A person up in years can generally do his own Miserere for himself; although I notice that such an one often prefers Jubilate Deo for his ordinary singing.  On the whole, the most religious exercise for the aged is probably to recall their own experience; so many friends dead, so many hopes disappointed, so many slips and stumbles, and withal so many bright days and smiling providences; there is surely the matter of a very eloquent sermon in all this.