better. The beautifully proportioned and graceful structure is now overrun with Popery. Altars are erected at every part of the bold circle; and Popish devotees were actively engaged in what they deemed religious exercises before each. On the steps of one altar lay a large crucifix, with wax candles in abundance burning on either side. Many persons knelt, and fervently kissed the feet of the wax caricature of our adorable Redeemer, and at the same time dropped a small offering in money into a little dish, placed for that purpose near the object of adoration. Money and devotedness are inseparably connected in the Church of Rome.

The next object which fixed our attention was the Mons Capitolinus, -the site, and part of the ancient structure, of the Capitol, around which memory congregates associations of the most heart-stirring kind. In front of the Capitol stands the undoubtedly

ancient equestrian bronze statue of Marcus Aurelius, with other works of art less perfect. It is as fresh as ever, and as nobly graceful. From the tower of the Capitol we obtained a general view of the chief remains of Rome's greatness, together with the far-spreading Campagna, and the course of the muddy Tiber. Directly under us, and somewhat to the left, were the Mamertine prisons,-those gloomy abodes of torture and death, in whose sad shadows the great Apostle of the Gentiles once lay captive and bound; and near them, rather more towards the south, the remains of the temple dedicated to Jupiter Tonans, consisting of three exquisitely beautiful Corinthian columns, of marble; to the right of these, the portico of the Temple of Concord; and to the left, the richly-sculptured Arch of Septimius Severus. And there, too, lay the site of the Forum Romanum, all silent and desolate no voice of riveting eloquence is there, save that of other days, which comes back on the breeze of fitful reminiscence. Carrying the eye onwards to the left, and passing the remains of heathen temples, now transformed into churches, and bear

ing about them the trinkets and trappings of Popery, the Colosseum -that noble monument, which attests alike the greatness and the littleness of Rome-stands prominently in the field of vision. Viewed by daylight from the summit of the Capitol, or at night, when the rich flood of moonbeams is poured upon it, the Colosseum is indeed a wonderful object of interest. I contemplated it under both aspects; and the impression will not be easily obliterated. Time was, when the noble and the graceful, the royal and the gifted, the virgin and the matron, the poet and the philosopher, found their places on those now crumbling seats, capable of containing their thousands upon thousands; and, gazing on the vast area formed for deadly conflict, there sought, in the sad excitement of the scene, for gratifications which the graceful and rational pursuits of life had failed to afford. Popery has set up her symbols in that scene of pagan heartlessness, only exchanging one kind of darkness for another. Penitential stations now surround the area; a large crucifix occupies its centre; and indulgences are granted in proportion to the number of kisses which it receives from devotees. In the language of a forcible writer on this and other scenes of ancient and modern Rome, I only add,-" Erected by a Pagan, purged of its inhuman rites by a Priest, and propped in old age by a Pope, the Colosseum shadows out some faint emblematical picture of Rome itself. It was once the stormy theatre of bloody deeds, it is now the peaceful asylum of holy crosses. Part of it still stands erect or renovated, part of it totters over its base; but the greater part of it has vanished. Eloquent in its silence, populous in its solitude, majestic in its adversity, admired in its decay,

the ruins of the Colosseum, like the remains of Rome, excite the curiosity of the antiquary, the ruminations of the moralist, the zeal of the Roman Catholic, the admiration of the architect, the sigh of the philanthropist, the sneer of the cynic, the humiliation of the philoso

pher, and the astonishment of all!"

Glancing onwards from the Colosseum to the right, the eye rests upon the Arch of Constantine, the first Christian Emperor of Rome,Christian, alas !-whose way to the imperial purple was traced in blood. As a work of art, it is still noble; as a memorial, still valuable; but, in the eye of the true Christian, it is a blot on the escutcheon of the true faith. Returning up the Via Sacra, or Via Triumphalis, we find it spanned by the Arch of Titus, sculptured with the story of Jerusalem's fall under the Roman arms, and with the symbolic furniture of the temple in bold relief, restored, after a lapse of nearly eighteen centuries, by a "successor of St. Peter." Whatever may be the feelings with which we contemplate the Arch of Titus and its sculptured trophies, and whatever the motive which led to its erection,-whether pride, vanity, or ostentation,-yet there it stands, a record of prophecy fulfilled, and of the purposes of Jehovah accomplished in the destruction of Jerusalem, the sacking of the temple, and the final dispersion of God's ancient people; and there, probably, it will stand, till the city of David shall again put on her glorious apparel, and the now scattered multitudes of Israel shall say, "Blessed be he that cometh in the name of the Lord."

To the right of the Arch of Titus, as seen from the Capitol, stands the Palatine-Hill, crowned with the crumbling remains of those palaces in which the Cæsars moved the machinery of Rome's mighty and once irresistible empire. Not a trace remains of any thing, but of the perishableness of earthly greatness; and of this there is abundance. The ploughshare has passed over those scenes in which pride, and luxury, and cruelty held united sway; and now rank overgrowth and squalid wretchedness are left, to declare how the glory which was not after godliness has passed away like a dream. If Kings and empires were disposed to learn, a rich volume of instruction is to be gathered

VOL. XXIII. Third Series.

from the Mons Palatinus, and the heart-humbling history which is embodied in the very name.

I feel I must not linger amidst these hoary remains of the most wonderful empire of the world, crowding as they do upon the memory, and each claiming a full and elaborate description. My business is rather with that which is now moving and acting in modern Rome.

During the Holy Week we availed ourselves of all opportunities for watching the ceremonies daily enacted in St. Peter's; and, while marking the conduct of the thousands who thronged the area, even while the stated ceremonies were in progress, we could not but notice the utter listlessness which pervaded them. It left an impression on the mind, that those who professed to account them sacred were, nevertheless, entirely unaffected by them. Mere lightness and frivolity seemed to pervade all ranks, except perhaps a few ascetic Monks, who paced stealthily along amidst crowds with whom they had but little sympathy. On one occasion, in the afternoon of Good-Friday, turning from the general assemblage in the nave of the cathedral, we followed a large procession of Ecclesiastics, of various orders, headed by a "Lord Cardinal," attended by his officers of state, into the northern side aisle, where, after having taken his seat under an enriched canopy, he received the public confessions of those who chose to make them. Hurried, brief, formal was the process; after which shoals of persons, both lay and ecclesiastical, knelt before him in succession, and received his benediction, which was administered by a touch on the head with a small gilt wand, something like a fishing-rod. Shortly after this the Pope entered, not in full state, though abundantly attended; and, kneeling at a faldstool before the high altar, blessed the relics contained in a vault constructed beneath it. This is a custom of annual observance.

During the Saturday of the Holy Week there is a cessation of cereJANUARY, 1844.

E

monies at St. Peter's, and time is allowed for fixing the various decorations, in order to give a stage-like effect to the sad drama of the following day, the day on which we celebrate the resurrection from the dead of Him who "was delivered for our offences, and raised again for our justification." Feeling that I ought to embrace every opportunity of seeing Popery in the magnificent form which it assumes at head-quarters, in order that future protests against it might be based upon actual experience, I resolved on being present at St. Peter's on Easter-day. Popery as it is can be thoroughly understood only in Rome. We may read of it in books, and become intimately enough acquainted with its dogmas, and doctrines, and discipline; we may trace its insidious workings in our own land, whether it go like the serpent, or speak like the lion; but as to its power to influence the mind, by captivating the imagination, this must be looked for in Rome.

As early as nine o'clock on Easter Sunday, we found the church thronged by those who were eagerly waiting for the ceremonies of the day; while the whole extent of the area was lined by the Papal guards in their picturesque Swiss attire, keeping a due space for those who were to take part in the proceedings. All Rome was throbbing with life and animation. Its week-day dulness and moping inactivity were quite banished. All was glitter, and glare, and display. Carriages of nobles and Cardinals-the latter with their splendid gold and sumptuous scarlet trappings-thronged the streets, which resounded with the clattering of wheels and the cracking of whips. All notion of Sabbath quiet and peacefulness was at an end. I thought of Christ and his meekness; and asked within myself, "Are these the genuine followers of such a Master?" as my eye glanced upon nobles, Cardinals, and inferior Ecclesiastics, Monks, pilgrims, and devotees, all pressing on together in a current of excited eagerness, as if to some secular spectacle.

I took my station on the south side of the high altar, amidst one of the largest assemblies I ever witnessed; and, certainly, I must admit, one of the most picturesque and striking. Perhaps it would not be easy for the most vivid imagination to conceive any thing more splendid and dazzling in its way. And there was something, too, in the season of the year, the blandness of the atmosphere without, and the brightness of the light within,—that helped the mind, and stimulated the imaginative faculty. It was at about ten o'clock that the great western doors of the cathedral were thrown wide open, while the choir within sang the introductory anthem. By and by, the Papal procession began to enter, advancing up the middle of the nave, which had been kept by the pontifical guards. The proces

sion

was headed by soldiers in armour, followed by a large retinue of the civil officers of the Pope, in costume, and a great body of Ecclesiastics, Monks, Friars, &c., in the various habits of their orders. Then came the Patriarch of the Greek Church, crowned, accompanied by several Bishops of the same Church, and their various officers and attendants; and after them a very large assemblage of Bishops of the Church of Rome, in their splendid and goldembroidered robes and mitres; next, a great number of Cardinals in their state-attire of scarlet and purple, attended by their train-bearers and other officials. It was, perhaps, half an hour before those who formed the procession had taken the several places assigned for them. A large space behind the high altar, in which stood the Papal throne, was carpeted, and superbly decorated with gorgeous drapery of crimson and gold, and set apart for the distinguished members of the procession, except for the Cardinals, whose place was immediately about the high altar, so as to be in attendance upon the Pope. As soon as all were in their places, a loud flourish of trumpets from without, responded to by another within the cathedral, announced the arrival of the sovereign Pontiff himself. Every eye

was turned towards the entrance on the south side, where there is a communication with the Vatican; and soon was seen the uplifted golden cross of the Pope, and next himself, borne aloft over the heads of the people in his gilded chair of state, under a rich canopy, with fans of large dimensions made of peacocks' feathers, continually waving from side to side. He wore his robes of state, white silk and gold, and his triple crown. He sat more like an image than a living man, with his eyes for the most part closed, and occasionally moving his hands, as if in the act of benediction. His person is far from prepossessing, however the weight of years upon his brow might entitle him to be called venerable. I should speak of his countenance as being a bad specimen of the vulgar Italian. He was soon seated on his throne behind the high altar, and received the homage of Bishops and others. His triple crown was then removed from his royal brow, and forthwith offered and deposited on the high altar; and then, wearing a plain white skull-cap instead, he was arrayed no longer in royal, but in priestly, vestments, for the purpose of saying mass, according to annual custom. During the whole ceremony, the Pope, aged as he is, appeared like a hale and active man. The scene was certainly imposing and splendid in the extreme; but, alas! no religious feeling could for a moment be connected with it. It seemed altogether a matter of mere external display and ceremonious pomp; and I could but feel how gracious a lot was mine, that I should be a member of a Church through which both the bread of life and the water of life are really dispensed to the people. And, alas! I thought, if a poor guilty and sinwithered soul, craving after salvation, had entered St. Peter's at that moment, he might have been dazzled by the church's splendour, so as to have forgotten for a season the burden of his sorrows; but would have departed without an answer capable of bringing peace and consolation.

The mass was complete; the host was elevated; the idolatrous adoration of the "bread-god" was performed; and the immense congre. gation began to disperse, in order some to witness, and others to receive, the Papal benediction from the front balcony of St. Peter's. Following the crowd, I made my way to the grand area without; and it was an overpowering scene, when I beheld its vastness crowded with masses of people waiting for the remaining ceremony. I cannot say that they appeared like persons expecting to receive a spiritual benefit; and so far they were right; but yet there they were, alas! the vassals of a sovereignty which based its magnificence upon the ruins of spirituality.

The blue of an Italian sky hung over us, and the lustre of the brightest sunlight broke upon the lovely fountains that were casting their misty streams far and wide. The great bell of St. Peter's and other bells were tolling, military bands were playing, and all were at the height of expectation, when, at length, bells and music suddenly ceased, and a dead silence pervaded the bare-headed and attendant thousands. Immediately the Pope presented himself at the middle balcony, in his full pontifical robes and triple crown, borne forward in his chair of state, and gave the accustomed benediction, signing it, as it were, by the motion of his hands. Some prostrated themselves on the pavement, while others fell upon their knees, and a few remained erect, as mere spectators. As soon as the ceremony was complete, a volley of heavy cannon thundered from Fort St. Angelo; again the military bands burst forth with their acclamatory strains, and soon the area was empty and silent, except as it was traversed by the carriage of a lingering Cardinal or noble, wending his way from the splendours of the Vatican. How sweet and refreshing was the simple, scriptural worship in which we joined in the afternoon, at the English Protestant chapel! How affecting the contrast it presented to all we had witnessed in the lifeless formalities of Popery,

splendid and imposing as they were to the perception of the carnal mind!

It is quite impossible to convey an idea of the state of Rome during the Holy Week. It is a season which seems to afford a strong stimulus to the whole sluggish, sensual, and listless population; and has power to bring up from the provinces great numbers of such as delight in a kind of spiritual dissipation. When the season is past, the dull habitude of indolent indulgence returns; and, soon afterwards, Rome is deserted by the many who shrink from the summer temperature which is approaching, and from the malaria which breathes up from the Campagna, and carries disease and death in its course.

Popery seems to be a system beyond all others adapted to the tone of the Italian temperament, whose prevailing characteristic is indolence.

The Church is every thing, and it does every thing: it leaves scarcely any thing for man to do for himself. I believe the Italian mind, generally speaking, in its present defective state of cultivation, is quite incapable of those intense processes of thought and reflectiveness which the individual pursuit of spiritual truth occasions. There is a mental diligence and labour connected with real Christian experience, such as the Italian mind is, as yet, unprepared to exercise. Hence, then, the unlimited influence of a system which professes to do for money, what cannot be accomplished by any other means. The sinner rests his responsibility upon the Church. The Church professes to relieve and cherish; and, while drawing him to her maternal bosom, cheats him of the "sincere milk of the word," and binds him with a chain stronger than adamant.

JOHN BUNYAN, whom Mr. D'Israeli has fitly designated the "Spenser of the people," was born at Elstow, near Bedford, in the year 1628. His parents, according to his own statement, were of the ineaner class of society. They were, it is stated, "workers in brass," or, in other words, tinkers, whose profession bore to that of a brazier a relationship similar to that which exists between the cobbler and the shoemaker. The education with which he was favoured was slender and defective, such as was accessible to the children of the poor at that period. All the narratives of this man, which relate to his conversion from sin to holiness, are, as might be expected, chiefly compiled from

For much of the information contained in this article I am indebted to the Works of John Bunyan; his Life, by Southey, and Ivimey; the Christian Observer for 1832; and two articles which have recently appeared in the Gentleman's Magazine, 1843.

his own well-known autobiographical detail, entitled, "Grace abounding to the Chief of Sinners: or, a brief Relation of the exceeding Mercy of God in Christ to his poor Servant, John Bunyan;" "namely, in his taking him out of the dunghill, and converting him to the faith of his blessed Son Jesus Christ; where is also particularly showed, what sight of and what trouble he had for sin; and also what various temptations he hath met with, and how God hath carried him through them all."

Bunyan wrought for his family as an honest and industrious man, and early became the affectionate husband of a deserving wife; but he was addicted to sin and folly: he tells us, that he "was the very ringleader in all manner of vice and ungodliness;" and that a woman, "though herself a very loose and ungodly wretch, protested that he swore and cursed at that most fear