miliating state, and there he remained hour after hour, cold and faint, the object of wonder to the crowds which had gathered to the spectacle. But the gates opened not, and at sunset he was forced to retire, the object of his bitter penance still unaccomplished. Again the dawning day found him at his post, humbled and dispirited, while within the castle the proud pontiff who was trampling him to the ground, held his regal court with princes gathered around him. Yet the second day passed like the first-and the third followed it— while the wretched king was suing in vain for admittance, and Gregory was prolonging-what has been well termed"this profane and hollow parody on the real workings of the broken and contrite heart." But human endurance could bear it no longer, and the monarch rushed from this scene of suffering to a neighboring chapel, to beseech on his knees the intercession of his kinswoman Matilda, and the venerable Abbot of Cluni. For several days all within the castle, even with tears, had entreated the Pope to end this painful scene, and reproaches of wanton tyranny were heard from his own adherents; but he remained inexorable. At length, when Henry had reached the fourth day of his penance, Gregory consented that, still barefooted and in his penitential garment, he should be brought into his presence.

This is the point of time which the artist has chosen. The youthful King-for he was only twenty-six-reduced at last to vassalage to the Church-his fiery spirit utterly crushed by the misery of the last three days, and the shame that weighed him down-crouches abjectly at the feet of his oppressor, as if submitting his neck to be trodden on. The Italian Court are around, the witnesses of his degradation, while above him stands Gregory, proud and haughty in his mien-the very incarnation of mitred tyranny. Matilda is there, rejoicing in her kinsman's indignities-and Hugh, the Abbot of Cluni, who had administered to Henry in his infancy the rite of Baptism-and Azzo, Marquis of Este

and Adelaide of Susa, and her son, Amadeus-all calmly beholding these acts of spiritual despotism and relentless severity, performed by one claiming to be the Vicar of Him who was "meek and lowly of heart."

Is this a scene which it is well to perpetuate in the unchanging marble? On one occasion at least it would have been better for the Papal power if this record of its triumph had not been quite so prominent. We are told, that on the visit of the Emperor Joseph II to St. Peter's, when he came to this monument, he regarded it for a moment with fixed attention, and then turned away with a blush of indig nation and a bitter smile. We all know the Kaiser's future course; but might not the remembrance of that hour in St. Peter's have strengthened his purpose of a philosophical reformation, to depress and curb, in his own dominions, a power which could become so tyrannous ?

"There is but one painting in St. Peter's see if you can find it!" said a friend to me the day before our first visit. As we looked round the Church, his words recurred to us, and we wondered what he could have meant. There was an immense picture over every altar, and in every Chapel, and we recognized copies of the noblest masterpieces on sacred subjects. It was not until we had been there some hours, that we discovered-with one exception-they were mosaics, the colors, and lights and shades, being all so admirably imitated, that they rival the choicest works of the pencil. And probably centuries after the hues on the canvass have faded, these brilliant copies will preserve to the world a true record of the artist's genius. Time has already wrought its changes in the Transfiguration of Raphael, yet here is a duplicate in the unchanging stone, which even now begins to convey a truer idea of that great painter's conception, than the much cherished original in the Vatican. How deeply is it to be regretted, that among them we have not Da Vinci's Last Supper, which exists now only as a fresco at Milan, the

damp fast obliterating its colors, so that to the next generation its beauty will be entirely gone! "How long will that picture last?" Napoleon once asked, as he was looking at a beautiful painting. "Perhaps five hundred years ❞—was the answer. "And such," said the Emperor, with a smile of scorn, "is a painter's immortality!" The builders of this magnificent pile seem to have shared these feelings, and to have determined that nothing should be here which in the lapse of time might perish.

But in the wide Transepts is a sight, which cannot but arrest the attention of every one who is sighing for Catholic Unity, and remind him of those days when every nation acknowledged the same faith, and with one voice professed the same creed. There, are arranged the boxes for the confessional, in every language. Not only are those of Europe to be seen inscribed over these places, but also its various dialects, and the strange tongues of the East. Thus, the wanderer from every land, who worships in these rites, beholds provision made for his spiritual wants. "There is We are

one spot where the pilgrim always finds his home. all one people when we come before the Altar of the Lord."* Such are represented as the words of Marco Polo, in the thirteenth century, and here, to the member of the Church of Rome, they are realized. He comes to what he regards as the Mother Church of Christendom, and learns that he is not a stranger or an alien. He can unburthen himself to a priest of his own land, and the consolations of his faith are doubly sweet, when conveyed to him in the familiar words of "his own tongue, wherein he was born." With the errors of Rome, we have no sympathy-we feel and realize how much she has fallen from the simplicity of the faith-yet Catholic traits like this, none but the most prejudiced can refuse to admire. They show the far-reaching wisdom of

* Sir Francis Palgrave's Merchant and Friar, p. 138.

that Church-that overlooking the distinctions of climate and country, and recognizing her field of labor to extend wherever there is a degraded being to listen to her message, she is resolute to "inherit the earth."

But this vast edifice is never filled, not even, we are told, upon the coronation of a Pope. It is only, indeed, on a few great festivals that service is performed in the body of the Church, for ordinarily one of the side Chapels is used, and the High Altar stands lonely and deserted. Even Eustace -though a priest of the Church-inquires, why "the Pontiff, surrounded by his clergy, does not himself perform every Sunday the solemn duties of his station, presiding in person over the assembly, instructing his flock, like the Leos and Gregorys of ancient times, with his own voice, and with his own hands administering to them the bread of life,' and 'the cup of salvation?'" Such a sight would indeed be one both affecting and sublime.

There is much, however, to detract from our pleasure in the survey of this unrivalled temple. The very inscription on the front, instead of dedicating it to Him who alone should be worshipped here, states that it is consecrated by Paul V— IN HONOREM PRINCIPIS APOSTOLORUM. We pause to inspect the bas reliefs on the magnificent bronze doors, and are transported back to the days of heathenism. The artist drew his inspiration from no source more hallowed than the metamorphoses of Ovid; and Ganymede and the Eagle, with Leda and the Swan-the latter group more spirited than chaste— figure on the doors of this Christian temple. Advance to the High Altar, and near it, on a pedestal about four feet high, stands an old bronze statue, which the skeptical antiquary will tell you was once a Jupiter, by a slight change transformed into an undoubted St. Peter. However this may be, it is now a mere instrument of superstition, and through the whole day crowds may be seen kneeling before it in earnest prayer. Their devotions ended, they approach, kiss the

extended foot-which is almost worn off by this constant friction-press their foreheads to it, and the process is ended. Has the Romanist any reason to laugh at the poor Mussulman, who performs a pilgrimage to Mecca, to kiss the black stone of the Caaba? On St. Peter's day this image is clothed in magnificent robes the gemmed tiara placed upon its head -the jewelled collar around its neck-soldiers are stationed by its side, and lighted candles burning about it. A clergyman of the Church of England, who was present on this occasion last year, told me, that the effect of the black image thus arrayed was perfectly ludicrous; and with the people all kneeling before it, had he not known he was in a Christian Church, he should have supposed himself in a heathen temple, and that, the idol.

A

In the massive columns which support the Dome, are preserved some holy relics, which are only shown with much ceremony from a high balcony, during Passion Week. portion of the true Cross-the head of St. Andrew-the lance of St. Longinus, (with which our Saviour was pierced)— and the Sudarium or handkerchief, containing the impression of our Lord's features-form a part of this sacred treasury. Unfortunately, there are divers other lances of similar pretensions one at Nuremberg, and another in Armenia. With the Sudarium, it is still worse, there being six rival ones shown in different places, viz., Turin, Milan, Cadoin in Perigort, Besancon, Compeign, and Aix-la-Chapelle; while that at Cadoin has fourteen bulls to declare it genuine, and that at Turin, four. The learned, however, solve the difficulty by saying, that the handkerchief applied to our Lord's face consisted of several folds, consequently the impression of the countenance went through them all, and they are all genuine!*

One more item, and I have done with this disagreeable por

* Burton's Rome, vol. ii. p. 156.