Lent in Rome

Irish Jesuit Province

Lent in RomeAuthor(s): ViatorSource: The Irish Monthly, Vol. 12, No. 130 (Apr., 1884), pp. 183-195Published by: Irish Jesuit ProvinceStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20497120 .

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( 183 )

LENT IN ROME.

BY VIATOR.

TRUSTING that we were sufficiently fortunate to induce some readers of the IRISH MoNTHLY to follow us with interest through

the short winter months in Rome, and to read our account of the Church's doings in that city from All-Saints to the Epiphany, we pro pose to make a further demand on their patience, and to ask them again to bear with us, whilst we attempt some description of the remarkable days which succeed one another with rapidity as the year grows older.

We have not long finished our devotions for the Epiphany, when we are reminded that the 21st of January, the day dedicated to the child-martyr, St. Agnes, is at hand, and that both in the morning and the afternoon we may assist at special functions in her honour. The history of few amongst the early martyrs of the Church is more interesting than that of St. Agnes; and to us English-speaking Catho lics she is well-known as one of the principal characters in Cardinal

Wiseman's charming tale of the early days of Christianity, " Fabiola." In this story, although it can hardly be called literally historical, the Saint yet maintains the characteristic virtues by which she is known in hagiology, her childlike innocence and her spotless purity. Martyred at the early age of thirteen, she has left her mark for all ages behind her; and after the Mother of God, she is supposed to be the special patroness of the angelic virtue of purity. Her name, which, as our readers are aware, in Latin means Lamb, in Greek signifies Chaste.

Two Roman churches are dedicated to St. Agnes, one within and the other without the city walls. It is in the second church that the specially interesting service is held on the morning of the anniversary of the saint's martyrdom; and thither we early directed our footsteps on a day when the balmy air and bright sun would almost persuade us that spring is already here. After walking a couple of miles along the

Nomentana-road, we arrive at a pile of buildings, to each of which some interest is attached. Passing under a gateway we see a large glazed chamber on our right, which on nearer inspection is found to contain the fresco by Domenico Tojetti, of the miraculous escape from injury of Pius IX., who with his cardinals, and attendants fell, through an insecure flooring in the adjacent convent, into the cellar below, in the year 1855. As a thank-offering for his preservation from harm, the late Pope rebuilt the monastry, and added rich decorations to the

Church of St. Agnes. Into this church we now descend by a staircase of forty-five ancient marble steps; it is lined with inceriptions and



184 4ent in Rome.

fragments taken from the catacombs near at hand, in which, in the first instance, St. Agnes' body was laid.; and which you can enter from a door leading out of the church itself. The church is, therefore, on the low level of the catacombs. It contains much of interest. Built by Constantine, it has retained more of its ancient character than miany of the Roman churches, and the columns are of old workmanship, and their marbles are of great value. A baldichino has been erected over the High Altar, beneath which is the shrine of St. Agnes, sur

mounted by her statue, an antique of Oriental alabaster, with modern head and hands of gilt bronze.

At this altar High Mass is to-day sung pontifically; and after it is over, we notice an unusual stir in the dense throng of people which is pressing as near as possible to the officiating clergy. The crowd is parted by two men who approach the altar, bearing their burden, whilst an unwonted sound of the bleating of lambs meets the ear. We are tempted to exclaim in biblical language: " What meaneth, tlhen,

this bleating of the flocks, which soundeth in my ears, and the lowing of the herds, which I hear." But our curiosity is soon satisfied, for the men deposit on the altar, two snow-white lambs, decorated with bright ribbons and we recognise in these honoured ones of the flock, the two lambs which on St. Agnes' day are specially blest as typical of the purity of the virgin-martyr, and which are to enjoy a long life of honourable comfort in reparation for the time of trial to which to-day they are exposed. Poor little innocents! they are evidently now in distress, as is testified by their constant bleating; and God's altar is hardly the resting-place of their choice. They are now sprinkled with holy water and mystical words are spoken over them; but once this short half-hour is passed, they will be consigned to the gentle keeping of saintly nuns, who will tend them with kind hands, and never suffer the sharp knife which works such cruel havoc in the flock to come near these anointed ones. All that is asked in return for the care lavished on these lambs, is that they should yearly yield their wool for the making of the palliums, both for the Pope and for the bishops to whom he sends them, as the sign of episcopal jurisdiction. Even this wool is specially honoured, for the palium of the Pope is consecrated before it is worn, by being placed in a golden urn upon the tomb of St. Peter.

The whole ceremony of St. Agnes' day is touching and interesting. The church stands in the Arcadian-like wilds of the Campagna. The day is full of spring-like promise. The typical lambs in their snowy fleeces are worthy representatives of their anti-type, the saint herself, the youthful purity and innocence of whose character combine with

much else to give this day and spot a special feeling of freshness, un sullied by the soil and wear of the busy world of cities.

Close to the church of St. Agnes, from which it is only separated



Lent in Rome. 185

by a short path hedged on either side by aromatic box-trees, and bushes of the pale china-rose, which in Italy flowers throughout the year, is the circular church of St. Costanza, erected by Constantine as a mausoleum for his two daughthers, Constantia and Helena, but which was converted into a church by a Pope in the middle-ages. This church has a deserted and unused aspect, as have many of the Roman churches, which stand either in the country, or on spots from which, although within the walls, the city has gradually receded. We may remark in passing, that the changes which have taken place in the parts of Rome which the populace inhabit are noteworthy. Many

which to-day are lying desolate, in the past were thickly peopled; whilst others whose name (which the locality still and through all changes retains) denotes that in the past they were open spaces, are now amongst the most crowded streets and thoroughfares of the modern city. These changes have had the effect of leaving many a venerable and remarkable church standing solitary and alone by the side of a country road. The flock which of old was wont to crowd within its walls has migrated, say, to the densely populated Campus Martius of to-day. On this ground, perhaps, Roman legions were exercising, or the barbarian cohorts of the later emperors were performing military evolutions at the date when Christian worshippers were thronging round the shrines of St. Sebastian or St. Saba, churches which now are deserted, and indeed sometimes are altogether closed, whilst the Romans of to-day are driven by necessity into the smaller and less interesting modern churches which have sprung up in the new parts of the city.

To one of these modern churches (for although of the seventeenith century, two hundred years in Rome are but as yesterday) we betake ourselves in the afternoon of the feast of St. Agnes. In the Piazza Navona, stands a richly, yet, granted the style, tastefully decorated chirch, dedicated to our saint. It is built on the spot where St. Agnes was burnt alive. She was, however, miraculously resculed from the pains of this horrible death by the flames in which she was enveloped changing their nature and being converted into a heavenly shower. Beneath the church is the chamber in which the child-martyr suffered unspeakable trials: it is now a chapel of peculiar sanctity, and handsomely decorated. The floor is mosaic, and over the altars is a bas-relief, representing St. Agnes with clasped hands, and covered only by her long hair, while two soldiers drive her before them. We need hardly add, that to-day this chapel is brilliantly illuminated, and is visited by thousands of worshippers. In the church itself, vespers are beautifully sung by the Papal choir, assisted by any other singer of note who may chance to be in the city. These vespers are one of the musical treats which no one who finds himself in Rome on the festival of St. Agnes ought to miss.

Close upon the 21st follows the 25th of January, a day on which we coramemorate an event which, humanily speaking, changed the



i86 Lent in Rome.

whole face of the civilised world, and stamped a new and special character on the infant church-the conversion of St. Paul. St. Paul differs from the majority of the apostles and saints in many particu lars. Whilst they were humbly born, he was noble; whilst they were unlettered, he was learned; whilst they are despised by both Protes tant and unbeliever, yet, differing as we do in all else, Catholic and

Protestant, sceptic and infidel, are united in the genuine admiration they feel for the power and philosophy of St. Paul's Epistles, and for the wonderful life of untiring energy in a great spiritual cause, of

which we read in the Holy Scripture. In Rome, St. Peter and St. Paul share the honours of the early

Christian Church with a brotherly and unembittered rivalry. The memory of the two human founders of the Church, sometimes separate, but often together, meet us at every turn, till at length they unite in the day of the chief victory won by the white-robed army of martyrs, the joyous festival which comes in the full glory of the summaer' s

meridian-the Feast of St. Peter and St. Paul. We seem to catch a slight foretaste of this day, as, on the morning of the 25th of January, we drive towards the [Basilica of S. Paolo fuori le mura. About a mile from the city-gate we see on oar left a small and humble chapel,

which commemorates the traditional parting of the two apostles on the morning of their martyrdom. A rough relief in marble depicts the scene, which St. Denis the Areopagite describes in these simple words: " In this place SS. Peter and Paul separated on their way to

martyrdom. And Paul said to Peter, ' Peace be with thee, Foundation of the Church, and Shepherd of the flock of Christ.' And Peter said to Paul, ' Go in peace, Preacher of good tidings, and Guide of the Salvation of the just."'

From here St. Peter crossed the Tiber, and mounting the hill opposite, was crucified on the ground now covered by the church of San Pietro in Jlontorio; whilst St. Paul was hurried a few miles further along the road to a spot which we hope ourselves to visit after we have assisted at High Mass and enjoyed the beauty of the new church for which we are bound.

As our readers are aware, the original Church of St. Paul's was destroyed by fire in the early years of the present century, and has been replaced by an immense modern structure, not even yet altogether finished. The exterior is not at present beautiful, though, perhaps,

when the portico of many columns which faces the Tiber is completed, it may to some extent compensate for the uninteresting, if lofty, campanile, and for the comparatively commonplace architecture of the basilica externally. Once within, however, you soon forget the dis appointment which the first sight of the church may cause, for nothing can exceed its grandeur of proportion. The eighty granite columns,

which in double rows support the roof, produce the effect of a very



Lent in Rome. 187

forest in stone, and stand magnificent in their solid immensity. Un fortunately, few relics of the old basilica were rescued from the fire; but some ancient mosaics which now line the apse and the triumphal arch above the high altar, were saved. These are the only indica tions in the church itself of the long ages in which a special interest has been attached to this spot by all Christians as the burial-place of the great apostle of the Gentiles, and specially by Anglo-Saxons, as the church which was formerly under the protection of the Catholic kings of England. All else was consumed by the pitiless flames, which in an hour destroyed the collected treasures of centuries. A striking example of the universal anxiety to honour St. Paul which we have already noticed, is to be seen in this, his Church. His body lies in the eonfessio, below the high altar. This is of malachite, the gift of the Emperor Nicholas of Russia, whilst the baldichino which sur

mounts it is supported by four pillars of oriental alabastar, presented by Mehemet Ali, pasha of Egypt. Truly does the anonymous author, known as UnJe Chretienne a Rome, remark: " Les schismatiques et les Mussul

mans eux-memes sont venus rendre hommage au souverain de la parole, qui entralnait les peuples au martyre et subjuguait toutes les nations."

A series of portraits of the Popes from St. Peter to Pius IX. runs round the present church, as it also ran round the former building. The space devoted to these portraits in the old church was already at an end; and for some time before the fire the people of Rome had seen with uneasiness that after the portrait of the reigning Pontiff, Pius VII., had been placed in its niche, no further room would remain for

Ihis successors. The fire came and destroyed at one and the same time

l)ortraits, space, and anxieties. Adjoining the church is a Benedictine

monastry; the monks belonging to it have the charge of the basilica and its services. To-day, although festa, the High Mass is sung to severe Gregorian tones by the ordinary choir of religious.

After we have assisted at Mass and wandered about the church and cloisters, we decide to drive a little further along the road, to a point

where a rough lane leaves the high road, and strikes across the cam pagna, which in this neighbourhood is even more desolate and plague stricken than usual. This lane brings us to a high and picturesque gateway, through which, after ringing a beli, we are admitted by a white-habited monk. We find ourselves in a monastery garden of some size, in which three large churches have been built. Space forbids our attempting any description of the first or of the second church; but on a day dedicated to St. Paul, albeit to his conversion and not to his martyrdom, we cannot resist asking our readers to follow us into the third, built on the actual spot where the apostle was beJheaded. IHere, the legend tells us, three fountains sprung up, as the head, severed by the Roman axe, rebound&tg from the block, three times touched the ground. Over these three springs, which are



X88 Lentzin z vARoe.

still flowing waters, three altars have been erected, each of which possesses a head of the apostle in marble. Great skill has been shown in the manner in which these three heads are depicted. In the first, life is all but there; it has barely left the expressive and eloquent countenance. In the second, death has already taken possession, and a calm expression of rest is stealing over the features. Whilst in the

third, we feel that death is now completely the master; that the lips are shut and the eyes are closed in peaceful slumber, never to awaken

on this side of eternity. The group of buildings of which this church, known as San Paolo

acle [re Fontane, forms a part, stands in that part of the Campagna in

which the malaria is even more deadly than elsewhere; and till lately a few pale French Trappist fathers, whose death-like appearance too well told the tale of suffering which this mysterious scourge of the Campagna

was causing them to undergo, were the only inhabitants of an apparently decaying convent. Lately, however, their health has improved, and as a consequence their number has increased, and we may yet hope to see a thriving community in charge of the three churches of the Tre

Fontane. This happy change has a simple cause, viz.: the extensive planting

and cultivation of the Australian aromatic gum-tree, the Eucalyptus. Fortunately, this tree is of rapid growth, and as it grows its strongly Ecented leaves have the power to extract the plague-giving vice from the air of the Campagna, and to restore its natural purity. For the last eight or nine years the monks have been busily planting, and the Tre Fontane now stand amidst groves of Eucalyptus trees. These serve a double purpose; for not only do they purify the air, but the

monks distil a strong essence from the leaves, which is of value in

caring from fever those who have not been lucky enough to be pre served in health by the mere fragrance of the tree. With the more general cultivation of the Eucalyptus we may hope yet to see many unhealthy parts of Rome and its neighbourhood freed from the fever and pestilence which now infest them.

The conversion of St. Paul is shortly followed by the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary, a feast which of old times, was in St. Peter's amongst the grandest of the year; for on that day the Pope himself officiated with all the magnificence of Christmas or Easter. This, of course, is now no longer the case; but we were fortunate enough to receive an invitation which was more than a compensation for the former Pontifical High Mass-a permission to assist on that day at the Holy Father's Mass in his private chapel, and to receive the Holy Communion from the hands of our Lord's own Vicar.

Some twenty or thirty other persons were equally honoured; and we aUl assembled shortly before seven o'clock, the hour at which his Holiness says Mass, in a room which, on these occasions, may be said



Lent in Rome. 189

to form part of the small chapel itself. Its wide doors, which are in front of the altar, are thrown open, and the seats are arranged in rows facing this opening. The gentlemen are, of course, all attired in the correct evening dress which is always worn by those in attendance on, or who are in any way brought in contact with the Pope; whilst the ladies were dressed in black, and their heads veiled, in the man tilla, which is also de rigueur within the walls of the Vatican. Punc tually at the appointed time his Holiness enters. He is clad in white,

with cincture and zuchetto of cloth of silver, and scarlet slippers; and he proceeds to vest at the altar itself. We may remark that the Holy Father says Mass slowly, and that he is served by his domestic chap lain. Our happiness in receiving this special Communion will be

understood by all Catholics, and in a paper of this light description need not be further touched on. They will understand that to us it was more than an equivalent for the grand and magnificent display of former days in St. Peter's; and that this quiet half-hour in the still small chapel, in such specially near contact with our Blessed Lord an(d his anointed High Priest, was more valued than the grandest cere modal pomp, whether ecclesiastical or secular, or the most magnificent function either the Church or the world could have presented before us.

The Pope's Mfass ended, he unvests, and kneels at a prie-Diew placed on the right of the altar and a short distance behind it, and the chaplain who had served the first Mass now appears vested at the foot of the altar. He says his Mass which the Holy Father and also all present follow as a Mass of thanksgiving after Communion. When this is over, the chief Chamberlain enters, and we are each in turn presented to His Holiness. We kiss his hand, or, if very zealous and devoted, the cross worked on his crimson slipper. It seemed to us that the Pope somewhat deprecated this last act, as perhaps having an air of extravagance and unreality. This, though, may be our mistake, and the result of our cold, Northern temperament, which sees some thing noteworthy in that which to an impulsive Italian is but a mere comlmonplace of respect. We are each honoured by a few gracious

words as we kneel before the Holy Father, and may also take this opportunity to make any request which we think is likely to be granted us. We may ask for a blessing on any work or person in whom we are interested, or a prayer for a struggling church or community far away; or even we may petition for a blessing on those unhappy ones who, in these days of numerous conversions, are so near to many of us in the flesh-those who are still without the fold and straying in the dry, parched deserts of heresy and schism. Although far distant,

many of these have been known to enter the green pastures of the Church as an all but visible result of having been blessed by the Holy Father at the charitable inAstigation of some friend or relation, eo speedily has conversion followed the blessing.



9go Lent in Rome.

Easter falls early this year, and consequently other dates which depend on the Queen of Church Festivals, also fall proportionately early. This affects the world equally with the Church; and before February is half over we see preparations for the coming Carnival, wvhich in Rome has a lengthy existence of ten days' wild and noisy frolic. The mirth, luckily, only commences on each day about three in the afternoon, and the streets are supposed to be once more quiet after suinset. Ten entire days, when the unhappy stranger or the unpopular

Roman is liable to be followed, chaffed, and teased by unrecognisable masks would be unbearable. Even as it is, the time seems too long, and we could wish that the Romans would (coinfine themselves to the

Monday and Tuesday preceding Ash Wednesday, as do the majority of other towns that pass a merry though short carnival. The special feature of the Roman Carnival is the race of the riderless horses, with which the merry-making finishes every evening. The poor animals can hardly like the fun, for the race is merely a wild and dangerous scamper down the Corso by horses who have been frightened into a start, and who are half maddened by pricks and flapping papers, and the shouts of the people as they tear along. At the end of the street they are caught in a net suspended from above, and which prevents their dashing themselves to death against the houses with which the

Corso terminates. Sometimes a horse will slip and fall amongst the people on either side, and serious and even fatal accidents have often resulted from this race.

On Shrove Tuesday the day's fun does not end with this popular though dangerous pastime; for no sooner is the race over, and the evening begins to close in, than the Corso is again thronged with

masks and costumes, and the balconies and verandas are more crowded than ever. The large cars, too, containing every description of grotesque design and device, which had been cleared out of the way for the race-those within having lighted their torches and lanterns-again drive up and down the streets. This year these cars are numerous, and some of them are tastefully decorated. The Artists' Club appear as Bedouin Arabs in correct Eastern costume, with six camels to draw their carriage. They are followed by an immense car, on which is fixed a large forest tree, and amongst its branches some dozen men cleverly attired, as monkeys, climb and clamber, and wave torches, and burn Bengal fire. The tree is so high, that the monkeys are on a level with the balconies, which are also fast being illumi nated. Every occupant of a balcony holds a candle, and the object of each and all is to extinguish his neighbour's light, the monkeys blowing out the candles as fast as any amongst the merrymakers. This is the well-known Mocoletti, the yearly conclusion of the Roman Carnival, and is a pretty sight. With this bright and beautiful even ing all gaiety and noisy pleasures are supposed to cease for the coming forty days of Lent.



Lent in Rome. 191

We had not forgotten that on this same evening of Shrove Tuesday a sight even surpassing the brilliancy of the Mocoletti was to be enjoyed in a very different atmosphere, and under very different conditions to those of the noisy Corso. Not a hundred yards from the busy thoroughfare of Rome stands the church known as the Gesm, that is, the chuirch formerly belonging to the Jesuits, but whose place, alass! now knows them no more, for their expulsion from their own church and house, the scene of the society's sainted founder's labours and death, was one of the most striking enormities committed by the Piedmontese on their taking possession of Rome, in 1870. In this church the Forty Hours' Exposition of the Blessed Sacrament yearly commences after High Mass on Quinquagesima Sunday, and finishes with Benediction at sunset on Shrove Tuesday.

It has been truly said that a Catholic can well afford to defy the world, even under its most attractive and gorgeous aspects. We leave out of consideration all that touches our innermost soul and spiritual nature, of which the world professedly takes no count; but even from its external aspect, and in all that affects our sense, when confronted

with the world's most brilliant sights and all its garish splendour, a Catholic can always point to some function or office in which its magnificence is yet outdone by the richness and grandeur lavished on a Church festival. Whilst others, again, may be enraptured by strains of music telling their tale of human loves in ballad, or of human fears and passions in opera, he may forget human existence itself

whilst listening to the music of worship-praise in Mass or hymn. The spiritual and ethereal nature of much sacred music would all but per suade us that its beauties can have had nLo earthly origin, that they

must be stray chords which have escaped in some unknown way from

angelic choirs, and will yet not be baulked of their original honour of sounding forth in the honour and praise of God, and thus lend them selves to the worship of men instead of to that of angels. Whichever art we may chose to consider, we shall always find that each artist's chef-d'cuvre has been offered to the Church. If an adversary can

point to an apparent exception, we can in each case truly answer,

that his exception is an artist of second-rate merit: for whether we have in mind the great painters of the past, the wonderful architects of both mediteval and renaisance days, or the musicians of later ages, have not each, whether it be in picture, building, or comuosition, offered their best to God ? Indeed, we cannot but think that some explanation of the mediocrity of modern art, which, notwithstanding its technical cleverness, all agree is poor in spiritual beauty and purity when compared with that of the old masters, may be found in the gradual decay of faith, which, beginning in the sixteenth century, is to-day threatening the break up of the very foundations

VOL. Xl., NO. 130. 16



192 Lent in Rome.

both of religion and of our social life. Notwithstanding all the loud talk and noissy excitement about art at the present time, how little there is in the work now produced that even merits the name! We believe this may result from the fact that, although we hear a great deal about art for art's sake, and of art for man's sake, we seldom hear a word about art for God's sake. Art, as the handmaid of religion, has often carried us_beyond ourselves, beyond the regions of describable feeling into those of ecstasy and rapture surpassing all that it is in the power of aught else to arouse. But such intensity of feeling is the effect of works of art produced in days when the world

was, we may say, impregnated with faith and these were the spon taneous and natural expression of a belief that was not even ques tioned, which was all but unconsciously breathed as naturally by the soul as the air is by the lungs. Ages of faith have been ages of art, and art in its highest efforts is but one expression of an act of faith. Hence its power to touch those whose own faith allows of their re sponding to that of the artist, and of their finding an echo in their own souls to that wbich we know he must so deeply have felt in order to give so true an outward expression of the feeling. But the art of to-day, in which religion plays no part, whether it reproduces the dull realism of modern life, or whether it endeavours to bring back to us the mythical beauties of a past superstition, too often leaves us as cold and unimpressed as it finds us, and in this fact we have fur ther evidence of the known truth, that whenever art has been truly

great, it has been as the expression of a people's religion. This is true even of a false creed, as in the case of Greek art; for false religion, truly and sincerely believed, will develop an earnestness of nature, and a power of portraying godlike beauty, which, in these days of agnostic doubt and of sceptical frivolity, we look for in vain. Indeed, we are tempted to think that to believe that which is false is a preferable state of mind to one in which we doubt of everything, criticise everything, and reverence nothing-no uncommon frame of

mind to-day. At any rate, it is certain that, whichever state may be morally the better, a doubting mind is artistically sterile, whilst a believing one is fertile.

We must apologise to our readers for this digressiox, and ask them to return with us to the Gesui Church at Rome, and assist at the

Benediction with which the devotion of the Forty Hours will close. On entering we find the immense church somewhat dark, as all day light is jealously excluded; but a number of men are busy lighting the innumerable candles, and in a short time the church becomes brilliantly illuminated. Each side-chapel is lighted, and all down the nave chandeliers are suspended from above. As we near the sanctuary, these chandeliers become more numerous and completely surround the high altar in a double row. 1n the centre of this blaze of light, from



Lent in Rome. I93

which it radiates, and amidst artistically-arranged draperies of red and white, stands the monstrance, within which is the Sacred Host. The walls behind are of highly polished marble, of the beautiful colour known as gialio-antico; and here, too, are fixed numberless candles, which are reflected from the polished surface of the marble. If we return to the bottom of the church to view this wonderful illumination,

which, as the clouds of incense arise, is seen through a misty and distant atmosphere, adding the charm of mystery to all else, the effect produced is that of a star-bespangled sky, the number and brilliancy of the stars radiating from one centre, that small white circle, which stands out distinct from all else, the object of our common adoration and worship-the Sun of Righteousness, visibly shining on us in a

material form. Meanwhile strains of lovely music are swelling forth from a

gallery, which is placed so high up in the church as to be unnoticeable; we seem to hear music from the spheres; but it fills the whole build ing, and we do not care to localise it. A long procession now enters from the sacristy, each member of which bears a lighted candle. First come a number of gentlemen connected with the church or parish.

Many of these are of the highest Roman nobility, and boast of names which recall the most stirring episodes of Italian and mediaval history. They are followed by a long line of the students from the German College, who, since the expulsion of its legitimate owners now serve the Church. The students of each national college in Rome have a distinctive dress, and that of the Germans is bright scarlet. To-day they wear white cottas over their red cassocks, and add additional colour to the scene before uR. They kneel within the sanctuary, and are immediately followed by the clergy, richly vested. The music continues for half an hour, then the benediction is given wth the Blessed Sacrament, and the Forty Hours' Adoration is over. The large doors open, through which the dense crowd disperses, whilst the candles are quickly extinguished.

Before leaving the church, bowever, we must devote a few minutes to the shrine of St. Ignatius, who lies buried in the chapel to the right of the high altar. Its richness is well known. The altar is composed of precious marbles, set in highly-wrought metal work; above it is a life-sized statue of the saint in silver, and vested in a richly-hejewelled chasuble. This statue, which, as it rule, is con cealed by a picture, to-day is uncovered. Higher up again is a sculptured group of the Holy Trinity, the Almighty Father holding the famous globe of lapis-lazuli in his hand, which for many ages was supposed to be the largest pitece of that valuable stone in existence.

We have recently been told that it is now found to be composed of two pieces cleverly joined together. Whether this be the case or not

we are powerless to decide; for, at any rate, as seen from below, it



194 Lent in Rome.

appears to be one. Around the altar are a number of small oil-lamps, which burn continually, and which may be considered to symbolise the fire which burned so fiercely within the saint's breast that it kindled a corresponding flame in the bosoms of his disciples and fol lowers, which is not extinguished even to-day. The fiery zeal for God and for his Church, which has always distinguished the members of the Society of Jesus, may explain the equally fierce hatred to which it is hourly exposed from the world. 'The world's main object being to battle against God and his truth, it not unnaturally sees in these soldiers of Jesus its most formidable enemy; and wherever the fana tical spirit of persecutjpn breaks out, we surely and certainly find the first brunt of its fury bbrne by the Jesuits. It is, however, thank God, all in vain. As well hope to fight the air with the sword, or to dispel the summer mists by a command, as to touch the spiritual force of the great body of the Church's vanguard with the material force, which when driven from stronghold to stronghold, is the world's last resource. The world would persuade, but a Jesuit wiU not listen; it commands, but he is deaf. Baffled in any milder means of reach ing its end, it drives him into exile; but the spirit of faith he has

kindled is but heated tenfold by ill-usage. And when at length it takes his life, where one martyred Jesuit lies dead a hundred spring into life eager to share his palm. It is a poor strife is this of the

World with the Churcb, and one which through nineteen centuries we have witnessed so often that to us its issue is no longer doubtful. Even in the present day, to say nothing of lands still avowedlv lheathen, we may see it wearing its course in the countries of

Europe. If it has just finished with the usual result in Germany, it is only that it may begin with a still fiercer spirit of rage and hatred in France; whilst the spirit of the world, which won its apparent triumph in Italy in 1870, still waves its usurped sceptre over that unfortunate land. But the Ruler of the eternal ages can afford to wait, and we, resting with full trust in Him, can afford to be patient Whatever individual suffering may befall any one of us, and however black the present may look in any one country, we know that He is watching lovingly over his Church, we view the present without dismay, and we think of the future without anxiety.

It is with such thoughts as the above that we leave the GesA Church, in which for the last fourteen years no Jesuit has lifted up his voice, and step out into the still spring evening twilight. The stars are quietly one by one taking their nightly station in the blue heavens, and a feeling of rest and peace is on all above and around us. We feel, indeed, that in the presence of this vast and yet perfectly-ordered multitude of worlds, in this ever-present revelation of God's immensity and all-reaching powers, we may well cast all our small trials and troubles on Him, knowing that however grievous they



7h'0o Sunsefs. J95

may seem to our limited view, however apparently hurtful to his kingdom on earth, we may rest assured that all in heaven and all on earth are working together to his honour and glory, and that in his good time we shall ste that so it is.

TWO SUNSETS. BY RUTH.

I. Fxmcis. It E was the only son of his mother, and she;was a widow." Proud 11 was this widow of her only son-her noble-hearted, fatherless

boy. And as they sat together beneath a drooping willow, watching the golden sunset, hailing the cuckoo's call, they were a picture of sweet content and blissful idleness: blissful idleness, for this was a

Sunday evening, atnd these were vacation days. This, moreover, was the mother's birthday, as the bouquet in her lap could fragrantly attest-that bouquet of her best-loved flowers-wild white roses and woodbine, gathered by the hands dearest to her heart.

Bending towards the reclining form at her feet, she said, gently and smilingly: "My son, your humility has been severely exercised this month in college honours, universal praise, and, maybe, some flattery. Let us trust, however," resting her hand on the golden head, " that your virtue is so strongly fortified that there is no un guarded avenue through which the enemy Pride may effect an entrance. Let us trust that the widow's boy gives all honour to God, to whom all honour is due."

And yet, the humid eyes looking into the calm, fair face beneath her, unconsciously testified by their expression, that in her heart she felt that no praise was too good for him, no honour too great.

The bright, boyish face was upturned lovingly, the large blue eyes met those seeking his, as with unconscious humility he rephed: " Nay mother, in the picture you have drawn. I see no cause for pride. True that I received the highest honours conferred; true that mine ears

were deafened by applause lavished upon the valedictorian ;* but that was but the harvest hour of many months of solid labour. Had any of my'$ classmates applied themselves one-half as earnestly as I

' This and "Isautatorian" are the odd names given in America (whence this

contribution comes to us) to the youths who deliver the addreses at the close and at the opening of academical exercises-M. 1. M.



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Lent in Rome