Puslapio vaizdai

helped. You are not to blame; it was the fault of her own vanity, which, after all, is very harmless.>>

<<I hope that it may prove so in this case,» he said quite humbly.

« Believe me, it will. This is only one of a thousand little flirtations on the part of Miss Angelica.» (For I perceived that he was generously thinking more for her self-esteem than for his own.) «She will feel much better to-morrow. And the sight of her father, who is a walking gold-mine, a check-book personified, will cure her completely. They will ransack the shops of Naples.>>

If my last hint was in the line of experiment, the prince at least gave no sign of being tempted. Evidently his was an ideal above American dollars.

In descending the mountain, Prince Michael, who had ridden up with the Van Dorens, returned in another carriage.

Arrived at the Albergo Orientale, the whole party heard him declare that he had found waiting for him a telegram from his prime minister saying that affairs had been settled satisfactorily, so that the prince was left free to remain in Sicily.

«Therefore," he added, "I take the next train in an hour for Taormina, where some English friends have been urging me to meet them.»

Nothing could be more perfect than the simplicity of the prince's manner in telling these amiable lies.

Just before his departure he came to bid good-by to his acquaintances. To me he said. quite seriously: «Tell me, madame, as an American, if I do wrong to retain as a souvenir that discarded shoe of Miss Angelica? Understand me, please. As a reminder of a very charming illusion, amid whose ruin I still preserve the sentiments of the most perfect esteem for the amiable young lady, I should like to keep her shoe, -alas! that she cannot wear

it,-and sometimes, when quite alone of course, never in company, to fill it with champagne and drink to the health of Miss Angelica.»

It was difficult not to laugh, Prince Michael was so boyish and so solemn as he propounded this delicate question.

<«< I assure you that I shall always cherish a tender memory of the beautiful American,» he continued. «I wish that I might have been able to devote myself to her forever.»>

« Ah, you have been true-to the last.»> "I perceive, madame, that you jest; but I am not sufficiently perfected in the English language to understand always a play of words.»>

« For which I beg your pardon.>>

"Sometimes," he said musingly, «I wish that I were a shoemaker, to measure the feet of the young beauties until I should succeed in finding my princess. In fact, everybody ought to have a useful trade, don't you think?» «Certainly-even royalties.>>

« Especially royalties-in case of a revolution, which in Polkavia is always possible; it is like living on the side of Etna. But we were talking of the little shoe. Am I to keep it? I beg you to answer me sincerely, madame.»>

<< Truly, I believe that there can be no harm in your keeping it, prince. And if you mean to fill it with champagne and drink her health without heel-taps-why, the better for your own health that the shoe does not fit her."

He cast on me a reproachful look for this new offense against the gravity of the situation. Then he said farewell.

And so departed Prince Michael of Polkavia, whom I have never seen since that moment, nor have had any tidings of him. Perhaps he is still in quest of the modern Cinderella, of the reincarnation of Rhodope. But for a romantic young prince it is certainly safer to make comparative studies of myths and fairy-tales than of living feet and little russet shoes.

Elisabeth Pullen.


A STRANGER in a far and ancient land,

At evening-light I wander. Shade on shade
The mountain valleys darken, and the plain
Grows dim beneath a chill and iron sky.
The trees of peace take the last gray of day-
Day that shone soft on olives, misty green,

And aisles of wind-forbidding cypresses,

And long, white roads, whitely with plane-trees lined,

And farms content, and happy villages,-
A land that lies close in the very heart
Of history, and brave, and free, and gay,
In all its song lingering one tone of pain.

But now the wintry twilight silent falls,
And ghosts of other days stalk the lone fields;
While through yon sunk and immemorial road,
Rock-furrowed, rough, and like a torrent's bed,
Far-stretching into night 'twixt twilight farms,
I see in dream the unhistoried armies pass,
With barbarous banners trailing 'gainst the gloom;
Then, in a thought's flash (centuries consumed),
In this deep path a stern, and refluent wave,
Brims the confined and onward-pressing march
With standards slantwise borne; so, to the mind,
The all-conquering eagle northward takes its flight,
And the great empire widens o'er the world.

There looms the arch of war where once, long gone,
In these still fields, against those thymy slopes,
An alien city reared imperial towers:
See sculptured conqueror, and slave in chains,
Mournful a myriad years; and near the arch
The heaven-climbing, templed monument
Embossed with horse and furious warrior!
Millenniums have sped since those grim wars
Here grimly carved, the wonder of the churl,
The very language dead those warriors cried
Through ages on a thousand battle-fields.
Deepens the dusk, and on the neighboring height
A rock-hewn palace cuts the edge of day

In giant ruins stark against the sky:

Ah, misery! I know their piteous tale

Of armed injustice, monstrous, treacherous force.
Deepens the dusk, and the enormous towers,
Still lording o'er a living city near,

Are lost to sight; but not to thought are lost
A hundred stories of the old-time curse-
War and its ravagings. Deepens the dusk
On westward mountains black with olden crime
And steeped in blood spilled in the blessed name

Of him the Roman soldiers crucified

The Son of Peace. Deepens the dusk, and all

The nearer landscape glimmers into dark,

And naught shows clear save yonder wayside cross,
Against the lurid west whose dying gleam
Of ghastly sunlight frights the brooding soul.

DEAR country mine! far in that viewless west,
And ocean-warded, strife thou too hast known;
But may thy sun hereafter bloodless shine,
And may thy way be onward without wrath,
And upward on no carcase of the slain;
And if thou smitest, let it be for peace.
And justice-not in hate, or pride, or lust
Of empire. Mayst thou ever be, O land!
Noble and pure as thou art free and strong:
So shalt thou lift a light for all the world
And for all time, and bring the Age of Peace.

January, 1896.

VOL. LII.-18.

R. W. Gilder.




HEN the death of the reigning Pope draws near, the cardinal secretary of state informs the dean of the Sacred College, who summons his colleagues to the residence of the dying man; the cardinal vicar issues orders that prayers be offered in the Roman churches; the cardinal penitentiary attends the bedside of the Pope, to whom the sacristan of the Pope's chapel administers extreme unction. As soon as may be after death has occurred, the body must be formally recognized by the cardinal camerlingo, who, in obedience to an ancient custom, first knocks thrice on the door of the bedchamber. Getting no answer, he enters, and taps thrice with a silver mallet on the dead man's forehead, and thrice calls him by name. No response coming, the camerlingo declares that the Pope is dead. Thenceforth the camerlingo is the most important of the cardinals, having charge of the preparations for the conclave, of the government of the palace, and of the transactions with the representatives of foreign powers, to whom he officially announces the Pope's death; the papal guard of Swiss halberdiers attends him when he goes out; his arms are stamped on the medal of the vacant see; he takes an inventory of the property in the palace, and affixes seals to the dead pontiff's papers. But in order to prevent him from overstepping his authority the Sacred College appoints three cardinals-a bishop, a priest, and a deacon-who are called the Heads of the Orders, and whose business it is to oversee his acts. They serve for three days, being replaced by others chosen in rotation.

Meanwhile the great bell of the Capitol, the so-called «Paterine,» has tolled the news to the citizens in Rome. Formerly this was the signal for unlocking the jails and for unrestrained disorders. Brokers used to set up booths where pools, as at a horse-race, were sold on the probable next Pope, enormous sums being squandered in this species of gambling; more recently that scandal has been less open. Every one is on tiptoe with excitement; churchmen as well as laymen display an eagerness out of tune with the grief

in which the church is officially declared to be plunged.

For during the novendial, or nine days succeeding the Pope's death, the celebration of his obsequies and the mourning for his loss are supposed to absorb universal attention. His body must first be embalmed and then attired in funeral apparel. When masses have been said over it in the presence of the cardinals, it is removed to St. Peter's, where, on a magnificent catafalque, it lies in state. Finally, on the ninth day, the public funeral-one of the great pageants of the world-takes place, after which the body is coffined and laid away in the temporary receiving tomb, to rest there until, when the next Pope dies, it is lowered into the crypt of St. Peter's for permanent burial.

Needless to say, the funeral ceremonies of the novendial cause no abatement in the preparation for the conclave. The day after the Pope dies as many cardinals as happen to be in Rome meet to confer. The oldest of their number, the dean of the college, presides; they swear to preserve the utmost secrecy concerning all their proceedings; they renew their oaths of allegiance to the holy see, binding themselves to defend and guard the rights, prerogatives, and temporal possessions of the church «up to the effusion of blood »; then they discuss questions of immediate urgency, listen to the reading of the laws governing the election, and hear the camerlingo's report of his business. The congregation reassembles each day, its numbers being constantly increased by the arrival of cardinals from a distance.

So soon as the last ceremonies for the dead Pope have been performed in St. Peter's, all is ready for the conclave to begin. As its sessions must be held, if possible, where the late Pope died, the Quirinal Palace was usually chosen; but the conclave of 1878 sat in the Vatican, where Pius IX. died. To preserve an appearance of secrecy, the quarters occupied by the cardinals are isolated from the rest of the building and from the outer world by the walling up of every door and window and aperture. Each cardinal has a separate room, which he draws by lot and may not exchange;

he is also accompanied by two conclavists, or attendants, who may be ecclesiastics or laymen, provided they have formed part of his household for half a year previous. But these are only a part of the personnel of a conclave, which has a master of ceremonies, a secretary, a confessor, a physician, barbers, carpenters, masons, and serving-men-in all some two hundred and fifty souls.

In St. Peter's, or other church, the cardinals gather. Their dean celebrates the mass of the Holy Ghost, after which an eminent prelate preaches a sermon admonishing them to set aside every personal consideration, and with all diligence to give the bereaved church a new shepherd. Then according to prescription the master of ceremonies takes the papal cross, and marches, followed by the cardinals in the order of their rank-first the bishops, next the priests, and last the deacons, all in violet capes. Their attendants precede them, followed immediately by the papal choir singing the hymn «Veni, Creator Spiritus.» The prelates follow behind the cardinals. Thus in procession they enter the conclave, and having reached the chapel, the cardinal dean at the altar recites the prayer « Deus qui corda fidelium,» after which the cardinals read the ordinances on the election of a pope and swear to uphold them; then they retire to their rooms, where they hold a general levee. Not until three hours after sunset, at the third ringing of a bell, are they left to themselves.

A great throng of spectators and friends escorts the procession into the palace. «Hither hie all the ambassadors and envoys and political agents in Rome, to snatch the last opportunity afforded for unrestricted conference, to give the last stroke to eager appeals of soft persuasion or deterring menace, the last touch to cunning combination, and particularly to deposit in the hands of an intimate confederate the knowledge of those whose nomination their courts will absolutely not brook.»>

At the third ringing of the bell the master of ceremonies cries, «Extra omnes!» («All out!») Yet there are still laggards, who go only after vigorous persuasion. The last having departed, the cardinal camerlingo and his three colleagues lock the great door and draw the bolts on the inside, while the prince marshal, an officer who has for centuries been either a Colonna or a Chigi, turns the keys on the outside. Thenceforth the conclave has no ostensible communication with the world. There are, however, two cylindrical dumbwaiters, or wheel-boxes, through which food and other necessaries can be passed; and

standing at one of these, the ambassador of a Catholic power delivers a final exhortation to the cardinals listening within. In 1829 it fell to Chateaubriand, in 1846 to Pellegrino Rossi, to give the Sacred College this lecture. When they have dispersed to their cells for the night, the camerlingo, lighted by men with torches, inspects the whole vast quarters, peering into each dark corner, looking under beds and into closets, to make sure that no unauthorized person is hidden there. Then, except for the whispered conferences of wakeful electioneers, the conclave sleeps.

On the morrow the balloting begins. Before describing that, however, let us see how the cardinals and their escort live during their seclusion. Formerly each cardinal had his food sent from his palace, and it was one of the features of this occasion for the cardinalitial lackeys, the so-called dapiferi, to pass daily with large hampers through the streets of Rome. A prelate specially appointed received these hampers at the wheelboxes, and it was his duty, before allowing the food to go farther, to search every morsel of it for concealed letters. The oath of secrecy, fortified by menace of dire penalties to those who break it, has never constrained either the cardinals or their attendants or their friends in the city. It has simply sharpened the wits of would-be communicators to discover safe means of sending messages. Many an important missive, secreted in the belly of a capon or in the heart of an orange, or pasted under the label of a bottle of wine, has reached its destination in spite of the vigilance of the bishop inspector of viands; and answers have been slipped back through crevices in the plastered walls, or tossed out of the window in hollow coins. Thus from day to day certain members of the conclave and their associates outside exchange counsel; and it has happened, as in 1831, when Gregory XVI. was elected, that news from abroad has precipitated an election. When secrecy is violated in this way while the decision is still pending, we need not be surprised that the history of the proceedings, in their minutest details, is subsequently published by those who take part in them. The best account of the conclave of 1800, for instance, was written by Cardinal Consalvi, who acted as its secretary.

At the conclave of 1878, which sat in the Vatican, the food was not sent in, but was prepared in a common kitchen, whence it was carried to the cells by the servants of the respective cardinals. Gregory X., in 1271, with a view to hasten the election by making

the electors as uncomfortable as possible, provided that during the first five days the ration at each meal should consist of a single dish, after which only bread, wine, and water should be allowed. But this ascetic rule was not observed. Latterly cardinals have eaten what they pleased. Their ordinary fare consists of coffee or chocolate and rolls in the morning; soup, two dishes of meat, with vegetables, wine, and dessert, at the noontide dinner, and again at supper. The conclavists usually eat with their patrons; the servants and artisans mess together near the kitchen, and they grumble at their fare as loudly as college students at commons.

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About ten o'clock in the forenoon the cardinals, having heard early mass and taken communion, assemble in the chapel, the Pauline Chapel when the conclave met in the Quirinal, the Sistine when in the Vatican, which has been arranged as a voting-place. A green carpet covers the floor, and round the walls are ranged as many chairs, or thrones, as there are cardinals. Over each throne is suspended a baldachin, hung with purple if the cardinal was created by the Pope just dead, and with green if he dates from an earlier pope. Before each seat is a table, with cloth of corresponding color, and paper, ink, pens, pencils, and the list of the Sacred College. In the middle of the chapel a large table bears two gilded vases: into one, chaliceshaped, with a lid, the ballots are cast; in the other, pyx-shaped, they are placed when they have been counted. The ebony box with lock and key beside them is used for getting the votes of those cardinals whom illness detains in their cells. Three gilt plates, other lists, inkstands, and a box of little balls for checking the names of the voters, complete the furnishings of the table, at which are set three stools for the scrutators.

In one corner of the chapel, near the Door of the Sovereigns (if we suppose the conclave to be in the Sistine Chapel), a long stovepipe leads up from a small stove to a window. To the right of the entrance a wooden booth incloses the water-closets. Farther on, another booth serves as a buffet, where the cardinals can refresh themselves with wine and biscuits. Near this are two chests, in which are kept three sets of pontifical garments, of large, medium, and small size.

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Having come to order at the request of the dean, if the formality of recognizing the cardinals be dispensed with, and in so small a body it is hardly necessary, because no impostor could hope successfully to palm himself off as a cardinal,—the first business is to

choose three scrutators, one from each order, to count the ballots, and three infermieri, who collect the votes of the sick. The canons define three kinds of election: by inspiration, by compromise, and by ballot. Election by inspiration takes place when "all the cardinals, as if by inspiration of the Holy Ghost, proclaim one candidate as pontiff unanimously and viva voce.» A single dissenting voice vitiates this method, which, we may remark, has perhaps never been carried out in literal conformity to rule, although several popes, after more or less wire-pulling, have been chosen by acclamation.

Election by compromise has sometimes been resorted to, after a long deadlock, by the appointment of a committee consisting of representatives of the various rival factions. The conclave merely ratifies the candidate nominated by the committee.

But election by ballot is the ordinary method. The ballots, when open, are about four inches long and three broad. In the first or upper section the cardinal writes his name; in the middle, the name of the candidate whom he proposes; in the lower section, some motto from the Scriptures. When he folds the sheet his name, being inside, is covered by the lower section, and only the candidate's name or the seal comes uppermost. To guard against the ballot's opening he seals it with a seal he has chosen, but it must not be one which the scrutators might recognize. Going to the central table, he deposits the ballot in the chalice, repeating at the same time this formula: «Testor Christum dominum qui me judicaturus est, me eligere quem secundum Deum judico elegi debere et quod idem in accessu praestabo.>>

When every one has voted, and the infermieri have brought the ballots of the sick members, the first scrutator takes each ballot from the chalice, and opening it (but only so far as to read the motto), hands it to the second, who, having entered the vote opposite the candidate's name on the list, passes it to the third, who reads it aloud. During this process the other cardinals keep the tally on the duplicate lists which each of them has before him. At the conclusion all the ballots are taken to the stove and burned, the smoke from the chimney being a signal which multitudes outside the palace await. According to common belief, when no smoke appears at the usual time it is a sign that the Pope has been elected. The last ballots are burned like the rest, however, the difference in the volume of smoke being due to the fact that as no straw is used at the last burning there is very little smoke.

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