How any one can remain a Catholic—­I mean who has ever been aroused to think, and is not biassed by the partialities of childish years—­after seeing Catholicism here in Italy, I cannot conceive.  There was once a soul in the religion while the blood of its martyrs was yet fresh upon the ground, but that soul was always too much encumbered with the remains of pagan habits and customs:  that soul is now quite fled elsewhere, and in the splendid catafalco, watched by so many white and red-robed snuff-taking, sly-eyed men, would they let it be opened, nothing would be found but bones!

Then the College for propagating all this, the most venerable Propaganda, has given its exhibition in honor of the Magi, wise men of the East who came to Christ.  I was there one day.  In conformity with the general spirit of Rome,—­strangely inconsistent in a country where the Madonna is far more frequently and devoutly worshipped than God or Christ, in a city where at least as many female saints and martyrs are venerated as male,—­there was no good place for women to sit.  All the good seats were for the men in the area below, but in the gallery windows, and from the organ-loft, a few women were allowed to peep at what was going on.  I was one of these exceptional characters.  The exercises were in all the different languages under the sun.  It would have been exceedingly interesting to hear them, one after the other, each in its peculiar cadence and inflection, but much of the individual expression was taken away by that general false academic tone which is sure to pervade such exhibitions where young men speak who have as yet nothing to say.  It would have been different, indeed, if we could have heard natives of all those countries, who were animated by real feelings, real wants.  Still it was interesting, particularly the language and music of Kurdistan, and the full-grown beauty of the Greek after the ruder dialects.  Among those who appeared to the best advantage were several blacks, and the majesty of the Latin hexameters was confided to a full-blooded Guinea negro, who acquitted himself better than any other I heard.  I observed, too, the perfectly gentlemanly appearance of these young men, and that they had nothing of that Cuffy swagger by which those freed from a servile state try to cover a painful consciousness of their position in our country.  Their air was self-possessed, quiet and free beyond that of most of the whites.

January 22, 2 o’clock, P.M.

Pour, pour, pour again, dark as night,—­many people coming in to see me because they don’t know what to do with themselves.  I am very glad to see them for the same reason; this atmosphere is so heavy, I seem to carry the weight of the world on my head and feel unfitted for every exertion.  As to eating, that is a bygone thing; wine, coffee, meat, I have resigned; vegetables are few and hard to have, except horrible cabbage, in which the Romans delight.  A little rice still remains, which I take with pleasure, remembering it growing in the rich fields of Lombardy, so green and full of glorious light.  That light fell still more beautiful on the tall plantations of hemp, but it is dangerous just at present to think of what is made from hemp.