open chimney. Nor are these all-sufficient weapons to be despised: the management of a wood-fire is not a thing to be rashly or unadvisedly undertaken; and though, when masterly instruction is bestowed on a genius apt to receive and constant to retain, the accomplishment may be acquired in a few practical lessons, I have known unfortunates who, after suffering the severities of many transalpine winters, were still imbeciles at their own hearth-stone.

Even in December the daylight comes and goes in Rome with a visible celerity that reminds a northern traveller of the latitude into which he has passed. There is, in fact, little or no twilight; but Christmas morning rose foggy and dull, and when we left the hotel between seven and eight o'clock, the aspect of the streets was more murky than I have often known London to be at the same season. Then the streets are so narrow, and the shops so mean, that there is nothing to relieve the gloom. As we crossed the Ponte di St Angelo, we observed that the fog crawled and clung about the Tiber even as a London fog crawls and clings about the Thames.

It may easily be believed, that a faithful description and a historical account of St Peter's would fill a thick volume. Nothing of the sort is here attempted: I shall do little more than endeavour to convey to the untravelled reader some of my own passing impressions. This magnificent structure-certainly the largest, and by some critics declared to be the most beautiful church in the world-marks the spot where the martyr-apostle St Peter was interred after his crucifixion, head downwards, on a hill about two miles distant. In the year 90 A.D., a bishop of Rome, who was said to have received ordination from St Peter himself, erected an oratory on the site of the present cathedral; and in 306 Constantine the Great built a basilica here, which henceforth continued a centre of attraction to the Christian world. It lasted till the end of the fifteenth century; and some curious representations of it exist among the paintings of the early Italian masters. Ruin had, however, long threatened the building, and various plans for a new structure had been submitted to different popes, when, in 1503, the assistance of Bramante was secured. In 1506, Julius II. laid the foundation-stone of the new building under the pier against which the statue of St Veronica now stands. This pope indeed entertained the ambitious desire of rendering the new St Peter's a shrine for his own mausoleum, on which Michael Angelo was then engaged, and to which allusion has already been made as a work which gave rise to malicious envy : a work destined never to be completed, but which, in its fragmentary state, rests in another church in Rome the well-known Moses, a copy of which is placed in the Crystal Palace, being the central and most remarkable statue.

Only four piers, and the arches which spring from them, were completed when Bramante the architect died, and by this time Leo X. filled the papal chair. New architects were chosen, and the assistance of Raphael obtained. The original plan had been that of a Greek cross. Raphael preferred the Latin cross; but Raphael died in 1520, and among the changes of purpose and of patrons which ensued, time passed on; and it was not till the year 1546, when Michael Angelo had completed his seventy-second year, that to this great artist was confided the task of altering, modifying, and completing the work so many hands had attempted to carry out. Michael Angelo returned to the form of the Greek cross, enlarged the tribune and the two transepts, strengthened the foundations, and commenced the dome on a plan suggested by the

dome of the cathedral at Florence *-saying that he would lift the Pantheon into the air. He kept his word; for the external measurement of the domediameter 195 feet-exceeds that of the great heathen temple by nearly two feet. It is true that, though he reached his ninetieth year, Michael Angelo did not live to see the completion of his work; but so far as this portion of the building is concerned, succeeding architects adhered exactly to his plan. We must remember that the building of St Peter's occupied more than a century-at a period when death seemed unusually busy in high places, so that the generations of men in power succeeded each other with changes of purpose which occurred in the erection of strange rapidity. Hence proceeded the frequent this cathedral. Many critics regret that Michael Angelo's design of a Corinthian portico, combined with the Greek cross, was not followed, as this arrangement would have permitted the whole dome to be visible from the piazza. But, on the contrary, succeeding architects returned to the form of the ful in itself, has the unfortunate effect of so screening Latin cross, and built a façade which, however beautithe dome, that there is no point of the piazza from which the cupola can be combined with the rest of the building, so as to exhibit all parts in their just proportions.

In fact, it is necessary to ascend above the cupola in order to realise the gigantic proportions of the building. Yet it may give some idea of the height to mention that, on the roof, wooden houses are erected for the convenience of workmen, who seem always occupied on the mosaics or in executing other repairs, such houses being quite shrouded by the angle of the parapets, and consequently invisible from below; and that the thirteen statues of Our Saviour and the Twelve Apostles which crown the façade do not strike the eye as colossal, although they are really 17 feet high.

An inside gallery runs round the base of the cupola, and from this gallery the visitor looks down on the bronze baldacchino resting far below; and up to the colossal mosaics which line the dome, and which are of necessity executed in large squares, though, when seen from below, they look highly finished and delicate. I was sorry to perceive a crack in the mosaics many inches in width and many feet in length, which indicated too surely a dangerous strain, though this large crack was quite invisible from below. On mentioning the circumstance, I discovered a certain superstitious feeling to prevail in Rome in connection with the dome of St Peter's-a feeling that its permanence and the permanence of the papal power were in some way connected.

It is the interior of St Peter's that in most hearts kindles the sentiment of admiration to intensity. Byron says:

Enter; its grandeur overwhelms thee not;
And why? it is not lessened; but thy mind,
Expanded by the genius of the spot,
Has grown colossal.

Indeed, some wondrous law of harmony must prevail in St Peter's, which takes from it that stern, if not rude aspect which commonly belongs to immensity in works of art-a law similar to that which rules in nature, for the beautifully rounded and developed tree will always appear smaller than it really is when brought into comparison with those of less graceful

It is curious to observe how reverential true genius is. Michael Angelo used to gaze for hours in admiration of Brunelleschi's dome at Florence, and often exclaimed when studying it: Like it, I will not do; better, I cannot:' and in Croce, at Florence, is so placed that it can see the wondrous accordance with his desire, Michael Angelo's tomb in Santa dome he so admired.

bare-legged friars with their sandalled feet, serge frocks, and rope-girdles, spitting as well as praying, and giving unmistakable evidence of their standing quarrel with, and separation from, soap and water. Later came more soldiers, and officers in brilliant uniforms, and ambassadors in official costumes, and priests, whose costly vestments and jewels eclipsed every other decoration. I thought, too, that the black dresses of the ladies, serried into masses, formed a contrast or background which set off those brilliant costumes to advantage. It is true there were many ladies in ordinary walking-dresses-especially those who came in for half an hour before proceeding to the English Protestant church-but they were not admitted beyond a certain barrier.

At ten o'clock precisely, the massive centre door was thrown open; and at the same moment, a strain of music was heard. Then began the grand procession of the day, every incident of which has, I believe, some symbolic meaning. It is, I think, a pity that these types are not more generally explained and understood; were their hidden meaning made apparent, these ceremonies would be more instructive and suggestive to the Roman Catholic laity, and more interesting to us heretics. Priests of many denominations walked two and two, generally with hands placed together, and pointed upwards, as if in prayer; then came cardinals in their rich robes, and in the same attitude, which permitted us to see their jewelled rings worn on the third finger. More immediately preceding His Holiness, three jewelled crowns, or mitres, were borne, each on a separate cushion; and two large fans of white feathers, in which the eyes of peacocks' feathers are set, were waved to and fro. I understand these eyes are symbolic of the vigilance expected from the pontiff; and, likewise, that the eyes of all men are turned towards him.

The pope was carried in his chair, or portable throne, and raised high on the shoulders of his bearers; and, with thumb and two extended fingers --said to symbolise the Trinity-he gave his blessing to the people as he passed along. Not believing in the infallibility of any human being, my feelings of respect were not so absorbing as to exclude other emotions; and I must confess a sentiment of compassion for this frail old man was that most prominent with me. I know not how one can go over one of his palaces and mark the arrangements which indicate his isolated existence without pity taking possession of the heart. Why, if it were only that an old man must fade away, and fall into the grave without the intimate companionship and tender care of woman, he must be an object of compassion. Is there no Christian symbol to be traced in the fact that, in our Saviour's history, women were found last at the cross,' and 'earliest at the grave,' that may sanctify this Protestant compassion?

Pius IX. has a benevolent expression of countenance, mingled with weakness and indecision. I have seldom seen any countenance so colourless; his closely shaven face on Christmas-day had that peculiar pallor which, in the decline of life, is said to indicate great vitality, and consequently the prospect of a long life. The pope's vestments were of white silk, richly embroidered with gold; and he wore on his head the famous triple crown, which blazed with jewels. It may be worth while to remark that the lower circlet of this crown typifies temporal dominion, while the mitre represents the spiritual; the second circlet shadows forth the union of the spiritual and temporal authority; and the third, the union of the pontificial, imperial, and royal power. In the large space behind the high-altar, the pope descended from his chair, and received the homage of the cardinals-and then commenced the ceremony of High Mass. The music, somewhat dramatic in its character, was exquisite;

By

a choir of well-attuned voices proceeded from a sort of balcony, with close trellis-like gilded railings, which concealed the persons of the singers-and I for one could not help thinking of birds singing from a gilded cage. I need not express my Protestant feelings about the ceremonies of the mass; but I must confess the scene was impressive when the pope, standing at the high-altar with his assistant-priesthood around him, advanced a step or two forward, and elevated the host for the faithful to worship. some well-concerted signal, the next instant the cannon of St Angelo thundered out to all Rome the intelligence, so that doubtless multitudes of believers who were not within the cathedral bowed themselves in adoration at the same moment. But that very ceremony, imposing and impressive as it was, had also its disenchanting power; for as every believer in the doctrine of transubstantiation knelt at the elevation of the host, they thus picked themselves out from among that vast throng, and proclaimed how small their number in comparison with the foreign visitors who had been attracted hither from curiosity to see the show. Of course, with only this transient opportunity of observation for one's guide, it is difficult to speak with precision on such a subject; but I certainly think that not more than one out of every fifteen or twenty persons who were in St Peter's on Christmas-morning, exclusive of priests and nuns, acknowledged themselves Romanists at the moment to which I refer.

When the ceremony was over, the pope was again carried in his chair; but this time he passed down the opposite side of the nave, and thus was seen closely by the people congregated in that part of the church, towards whom he extended his hand with the gesture of benediction as he passed along. The crowd now began to move, following the pope like the billows of a receding tide-all but those who paused to worship at the shrine of St Peter, or to kiss the extended toe of the bronze statue.

were

It was nearly one o'clock when we reached the open air, and looked upon a scene not easily to be forgotten. Slanting rays of sunlight had gleamed through the windows of the cathedral, and had proclaimed with their pencils of light that the morning mist had cleared away; but we not prepared for a literally cloudless sky of dark, clear blue-a sky that in the rarefied depth and intensity of its ether has no parallel in our northern latitude; a true 'Italian sky,' the memory of which dwells in the mind 'a joy for ever.' The sun blazed from the clear blue vault as from a throne-and pitilessly on the unbonneted heads exposed to its power, as we stood on the cathedral steps waiting for our carriage to draw up. But as this was a tedious process, necessity waived ceremony; and ladies were seen hurrying to whatever shade they could find, or raising shawls from their shoulders to their brows, by way of protection. And yet in the shade so many sought, the north wind was found keenly cutting, so that the alternative for that odd quarter of an hour lay between the chance of a coup de soleil, or a severe cold. The scene meanwhile continued to be sufficiently interesting; the bright sunshine gleamed on the cardinals' red carriages, as one after another they rolled away with their priestly burdens, and on the ambassador's gay dresses, and on the Swiss guard and French soldiers stationed in the piazza; and it made rainbows in the bright fountains there which seemed to leap up with a spirit of innocent gladness. The clear blue ether also formed a matchless background for the white statues that crowned the colonnades of the piazzapeopling their entablature to the number of nearly two hundred. These statues represent duly canonised saints, and though really twelve feet in height, appear

only lifelike; but then we must remember that the colonnades are above sixty feet in height.

In due time, our turn arrived, and thankful we were for the shade of a close carriage as we stepped into it. But driving home was no very easy matter; we had to fall into the long line of carriages that was forming, and to proceed at a walking-pace until long after we had crossed the Tiber. High Mass at St Peter's was the great event of Christmas-day in Rome; and the procession that crowded the main lines of thoroughfare for an hour after it was over, demonstrated how numerous and motley had been the congregation beneath that wondrous dome!

IN RE, MIND AND MATTER. BOBBIE was the name of an old bachelor Scotchman and odd character who kept an old-book shop in a certain university town of North Britain. He was a little man, with keen gray eyes under a high wrinkled forehead, over which straggled one or two friendless hairs, of which there never were so many on his head since I knew it, but that they might have been counted. His features were sharp, with a constant look of care; his whiskers white and thin; his voice shrill; and his lips thin, as if worn with use. Everything was sharp and thin about him, from his knees to his nose. His black coat was tight and bare, and his black trousers yellow and snuffy. He kept himself as he kept his favourite authors-whom he wouldn't disgrace by binding afresh-no, not to make them fetch double the money.

He never had any other name than Bobbie; or if he had, nobody knew it. Something about him forbade inquiry: there was no sign over his door; and he never gave receipts or credit. My instincts told me he was a Smith-Mr Robert Smith. He had the tread of a Smith-laid his feet on the world's soil like one with a right to do it steadily, frankly, flatly, deliberately. He had the humanity of a Smith -that feeling for the species which, however it may be with other persons, is always perfect in the breast of a Smith. So it ought to be. Aren't the Smiths, in a sort, human society? Others may have the feeling, but it is only among the Smiths that humanity can rank with the family affections. And lastly, he had that reserve about his name which characterises the Smiths he never told it to anybody; nobody knew it. Not that the Smiths generally deny themselves; but none of them ever had so fine a sense of what was due to the family. 'Homo sum,' &c. 'Smith sum,' &c. There is no occasion to mention the particular genus; he lived and died as Bobbie the Bookseller.

No one knew what he was in the beginning, or when the raw material of him was cast into the mould of the old-book shop. But the casting was perfect-he fitted it exactly. A cubic foot added to its space-an inch to the counter-would have made harmony impossible between him and it. As it was, he harmonised, soul and body of him, with everything in it. With the stock-in-trade, indeed, his mind had a sort of Corsican brotherhood. Like it, he smacked of every system and of all knowledge; his kaleidoscopic views changed with its changes, whether made by sale or purchase. When nothing was doing, and there was no new book to be assimilated, he would sit for hours as steadily as the books on their shelves, and looking as straight before him, brooding over some owlish question in metaphysics-Did the owl come from the egg, or the egg from the owl? He had always food for reflection.

Of his many peculiarities, only one is to the purpose. In the flux of his mind, two things were as firmly fixed as posts in a river-his belief in the

supremacy of reason, and his sense of duty. 'Vivere convenienter naturæ' was his sum of all the commandments; and wherever reason pointed the way, Bobbie put his best foot forward-a dreadfully practical little man. But as his own reason-which was none of the best-and not reason in general, was his guide, he was continually falling into extravagances. It was his foible to be always illustrating the power of mind over matter-if mind couldn't triumph over matter, where was reason's supremacy or the stoical doctrine ?

The said doctrine had hardly fair-play from Bobbie -he understood it so literally. Nature was something less than a blanket, and included neither cornfields nor stall-oxen, opinion nor laws. We were all right in a state of nature-so said Rousseau-mischief entered the world with inventions and conventions, especially the latter. Wherever he got the notionmost likely from some forgotten work of the eighteenth century, long since gone out of stock, Bobbie had it, that all the most deplorable evils were due to conventions (meaning conventionalities); and from this sprang, in the obscurities of his brain, a string of heresies as long and sickly as the shoots of a potato in a dungeon. It would shock you to enumerate them. There was reason to fear marriage was a convention. Polygamy here, monogamy there; here many wives, there many husbands: bah, it was a convention! Property was a convention-any proof wanted for that?-the evil were less if the law were clearer; it was a perfect muddle of a convention! The very order of society was a convention-pampered aristocracies, high caste, low caste, humane institution of American slavery! Of course it was a convention! Religion-yes, we weep to record it-religion was a convention. Nature in it ?-why, on the face of it, it was supernatural!— and Bobbie would array all the religions of the world, from Mumbo-Jumboism to Mormonism, and bewail the folly of mankind. It wasn't much one honest man could do; but he would do it. He wanted nature, and not conventions, and, while there was life in him, he would stand up against conventions!

One day he stumbled on a syllogism, which nearly proved the death of him, by knocking him up against a hitherto unsuspected convention. Loss of time is an evil;' the major, good. 'Sleep is a loss of time;' the minor, bad, but not so to Bobbie. "Therefore sleep is an evil'-conclusion quite alarming! Being an evil, sleep was a convention! Bobbie, who loved his night's rest, and never opened till ten A. M., was distressed at the prospect of this new martyrdom to principle; for him to discover a convention was to stand up against it; he was far too practical and moral a man not to suffer from his false conclusions. So he banged at the joints of that syllogism with all his logic to see whether they were sound; and still the inexorable major and minor turned round on them to the conclusion. He consulted a student of metaphysics on the subject, who attacked the minor with the vigour of eighteen; denied it, used bad language to it, called it a petitio principii; and said, in short, that sleep, so far from being a loss of time, was one of the most healthful and necessary ways of employing it. Bobbie's pride of intellect was touched. He defended the minor. Sleep was time lost to activity-an evil-a convention; and he would shew that and the power of mind over matter by doing without it.

The night following his conversation with the gownsman, Bobbie opened the campaign against the newly detected tyranny. He took no one into his secret, and meant to surprise the world by a discovery that would add a third to human life, if it would not pave the way to a triumph over death itself. Filled with these great ideas, he saw to his coal-scuttle,

drew down the blinds on the windows of his room over the shop, and adjusted himself for the night. He spent it on the whole pleasantly, reading a rusty Locke on the Understanding before midnight; writing out the fatal syllogism, and a note of his faith and feelings, till three in the morning; drank a glass of cold water, and exercised himself in leaping over the chairs placed at intervals in a circle round the table till half-past three; sat a while at the fire; feeling drowsy about four, went down to the shop for Tom Paine, where he was thoroughly roused by a conversation, in a screaming voice, through the shutter, with a policeman, who was surprised by seeing the light through the chinks; read Tom Paine till seven; cooked his breakfast and ate it till eight, and surprised the neighbours by opening shop for the day at a quarter past eight. During the day he felt very drowsy, but was able to go through the ordinary routine of buying and selling, and conversing with the gownsmen who dropped in, as if there were nothing particular on foot.

Next night, he commenced by continuing the note of his feelings and experiences. The record is before me, but too long and rambling for quotation. It begins (I alter the dialect, which was a bewildering mixture of Scotch and English): 'So far forth I have holden on, and not without hope of triumph. Why should I, the divine Ego [Bobbie deified his reason], for a moment be lost in the unfathomed- [A gap here.] Arms of Morpheus, forsooth! the pagan hypothesis. O man! how can you have led us, with your vagaries, into this time-destroying convention this curious putting of ourselves by in sleep-this voluntary exile of consciousness and power which we nightly suffer-this- [Gap again.] But I am throwing off the thrall.' And then came the particulars. He had to rub his eyes many times before finishing his scribbling; and when the clock struck twelve, and he rose for a change of employment, they were red and hot, and his head was aching. But he firmly believed that the majesty of the will being once asserted, nature would interfere to readjust matters, and he should be free, nor longer liable to be caught and clasped to the bosom of the insinuating pagan hypothesis! When, thereafter, he tried to read, the print danced on the page, and colours red, blue, and black, came and went upon it; and when he shook his head to rid himself of these impediments, he shook out long webs and strings of gauze that spread and hung before his eyes, with broken edges, rents here and there; here blotches of black, and there of blood, always shifting, always going downward out of sight, and reappearing immediately from above on their way down again; while numerous flies went in and out, and up and down, in the gauze, and completed his distraction. Reading became quite impossible. He now bethought him of the shop again. He went down, lit the gas, kindled the fire, and gave the place every appearance of business, save that the door was shut and the shutters on the windows. He set himself in his customary seat, as if he were expecting customers, just as he had done any time for twenty years; and doing nothing, held himself awake, if not by sheer force of habit-it was never heard of that he napped in the shop-at least by a strong effort of will. At three, another change became necessary: his feet were sleeping, if he wasn't-O weakness of matter!and he had some difficulty in trailing himself up stairs. Once there, he put on the kettle, made and drank a cup of strong tea, ate some bread and butter; and it now being after four, he spent the remainder of the morning till breakfast-time in playing loo with himself for high stakes, working Dumby's cards with great anxiety for that imaginary individual's interests. The shop was opened at eight. The issues in the great cause, Mind and Matter,' Bobbie for the

plaintiff, were now rapidly evolving themselves. As the day advanced, he felt like one in an uncomfortable dream. His fancy became active, and twisted everything at its will into the maddest grotesqueries; his thoughts played leap-frog in the chambers of his brain, and congested on his tongue, striving for expression. It was mooted about that day that Bobbie had lost his wits. He stood up as usual to the business of conversation, and the students who dropped in could make nothing of him. The little man's gray eyes were red; the wrinkles on his brow were deepened; and there was a stoop on his back, that used to be straight as a rush. Alas! for the supremacy of Reason! His absurdities and inconsistencies, that spread over many weeks, were amusing, exhibited in so many minutes, were terrific-sheer insanity. In the same breath, he was a baboon with Monboddo, and recollected with Plato the state of pre-existence! In the same breath he agreed with Hume and Berkeley. Conscience was at once the divine monitor and a convention; and he went in for the Ptolemaic system against an intending purchaser of the Principia. He shut the shop that night an hour before his usual time, and thus confirmed the suspicions which his behaviour had already awakened in the minds of his neighbours.

The third night opened with a game at 'loo.' No notes, no feelings, no particulars of his experiences. If his crotchets had not been so firmly rooted in him, he would have given up the cards by this time in re, Mind and Matter,' as well as literally. But Bobbie was no common litigant. He had foreseen and provided against the weakness of matter leading mind, through sheer pity, into a compromise of its claims. He had printed the fatal syllogism in fatal red ink, in a large hand, and pasted it on the four sides of his room. It stared him into a sense of duty on whichever side he turned:

NO COMPROMISE! Loss of time is an evil. Sleep is a loss of time. Sleep is an evil.

So on he went with his loo; Dumby now victor, now himself; strict regard for interests of Dumby; double; Dumby sweeps the pool; languid 'Bravo, Dumby!' hitch in reckoning with Dumby; pause to consider; head drops forward; not done yet; game to the last; splashes the cards on to the floor, and paces up and down over them pitilessly, as, hearts, clubs, spades, and diamonds, look up at him, deprecating his anger. It is past midnight. He is on the alert now; avoids chairs, tables, sofas, everything that suggests sitting, leaning, lying. It is one o'clock; he is weak and yielding; thinks of tea, but has not the energy to go and make it. It is two o'clock; how heavily and drowsily the great churchclock sounds the hour! This cannot last. Now, then, for his grand effort. He drags himself down stairs, passes through the shop, and into the street, and in the direction of the fields.

He never reached them. He had bravely wrestled with his enemy, but it threw him. His brain and blood were full of dreams that should have been three days old by this time, and they weighed upon him till he sat down on a cold stone by the wayside, when they made brief work of him, and stretched him his full length on the ground. The divine 'Ego' of him went into exile, while the pagan hypothesis roughly held the mortal part to earth! Verdict for the defendant.

It was well for Bobbie that the watchman, who had been for three nights puzzled by his extraordinary proceedings, over and in the little shop, had satisfied himself that all was not right; and being a kind soul, not to say inquisitive, had kept an eye on the