hands,” the yellow color of which added a new element of picturesqueness to the splendid pageant.  The pope was carried as before, and bore in his hand a short braided palm, with gold woven in, flowers added, and the monogram “I.  H. S.” worked in the top.  It is the pope’s custom to give this away when the ceremony is over.  Last year he presented it to an American lady, whose devotion attracted him; this year I saw it go away in a gilded coach in the hands of an ecclesiastic.  The procession disappeared through the great portal into the vestibule, and the door closed.  In a moment somebody knocked three times on the door:  it opened, and the procession returned, and moved again to the rear of the altar, the singers marching with it and chanting.  The cardinals then changed their violet for scarlet robes; and high mass, for an hour, was celebrated by a cardinal priest:  and I was told that it was the pope’s voice that we heard, high and clear, singing the passion.  The choir made the responses, and performed at intervals.  The singing was not without a certain power; indeed, it was marvelous how some of the voices really filled the vast spaces of the edifice, and the choruses rolled in solemn waves of sound through the arches.  The singing, with the male sopranos, is not to my taste; but it cannot be denied that it had a wild and strange effect.

While this was going on behind the altar, the people outside were wandering about, looking at each other, and on the watch not to miss any of the shows of the day.  People were talking, chattering, and greeting each other as they might do in the street.  Here and there somebody was kneeling on the pavement, unheeding the passing throng.  At several of the chapels, services were being conducted; and there was a large congregation, an ordinary church full, about each of them.  But the most of those present seemed to regard it as a spectacle only; and as a display of dress, costumes, and nationalities it was almost unsurpassed.  There are few more wonderful sights in this world than an Englishwoman in what she considers full dress.  An English dandy is also a pleasing object.  For my part, as I have hinted, I like almost as well as anything the big footmen,—­those in scarlet breeches and blue gold-embroidered coats.  I stood in front of one of the fine creations for some time, and contemplated him as one does the Farnese Hercules.  One likes to see to what a splendor his species can come, even if the brains have all run down into the calves of the legs.  There were also the pages, the officers of the pope’s household, in costumes of the Middle Ages; the pope’s Swiss guard in the showy harlequin uniform designed by Michael Angelo; the foot-soldiers in white short-clothes, which threatened to burst, and let them fly into pieces; there were fine ladies and gentlemen, loafers and loungers, from every civilized country, jabbering in all the languages; there were beggars in rags, and boors in coats so