Chapter 37

The desire of studying and becoming acquainted with the Roman religion, determined Lord Nelville to seek an opportunity of hearing some of those preachers who make the churches of this city resound with their eloquence during Lent. He reckoned the days that were to divide him from Corinne, and during her absence, he wished to see nothing that appertained to the fine arts; nothing that derived its charm from the imagination. He could not support the emotion of pleasure produced by the masterpieces of art when he was not with Corinne; he was only reconciled to happiness when she was the cause of it. Poetry, painting, music, all that embellishes life by vague hopes, was painful to him out of her presence.

It is in the evening, with lights half extinguished, that the Roman preachers deliver their sermons in Holy Week. All the women are then clad in black, in remembrance of the death of Jesus Christ, and there is something very moving in this anniversary mourning, which has been so often renewed during a lapse of ages. It is therefore impossible to enter without genuine emotion those beautiful churches, where the tombs so fitly dispose the soul for prayer; but this emotion is generally destroyed in a few moments by the preacher.

His pulpit is a fairly long gallery, which he traverses from one end to the other with as much agitation as regularity. He never fails to set out at the beginning of a phrase and to return at the end, like the motion of a pendulum; nevertheless he uses so much action, and his manner is so vehement, that one would suppose him capable of forgetting everything. But it is, to use the expression, a kind of systematic fury that animates the orator, such as is frequently to be met with in Italy, where the vivacity of external action often indicates no more than a superficial emotion. A crucifix is suspended at the extremity of the pulpit; the preacher unties it, kisses it, presses it against his heart, and then restores it to its place with the greatest coolness, when the pathetic period is concluded. There is a means of producing effect which the ordinary preachers frequently have recourse to, namely, the square cap they wear on their head, which they take off, and put on again with inconceivable rapidity. One of them imputed to Voltaire, and particularly to Rousseau, the irreligion of the age. He threw his cap into the middle of the pulpit, charging it to represent Jean Jacques, and in this quality he harangued it, saying; "_Well, philosopher of Geneva, what have you to object to my arguments_?" He was silent for some minutes as if he waited for a reply--the cap made no answer: he then put it upon his head again and finished the conversation in these words: "_now that you are convinced I shall say no more_."

These whimsical scenes are often repeated among the Roman preachers; for real talent in this department is here very scarce. Religion is respected in Italy as an omnipotent law; it captivates the imagination by its forms and ceremonies, but moral tenets are less attended to in the pulpit than dogmas of faith, which do not penetrate the heart with religious sentiments. Thus the eloquence of the pulpit, as well as several other branches of literature, is absolutely abandoned to common ideas, which neither paint nor express any thing. A new thought would cause almost a panic in those minds at once so indolent and so full of ardour that they need the calm of uniformity, which they love because it offers repose to their thoughts. The ideas and phraseology of their sermons are confined to a sort of etiquette. They follow almost in a regular sequence, and this order would be disturbed if the orator, speaking from himself, were to seek in his own mind what he should say. The Christian philosophy, whose aim is to discover the analogy between religion and human nature, is as little known to the Italian preachers as any other kind of philosophy. To think upon matters of religion would scandalise them as much as to think against it; so much are they accustomed to move in a beaten track.

The worship of the Blessed Virgin is particularly dear to the Italians, and to every other nation of the south; it seems in some manner united with all that is most pure and tender in the affection we feel for woman. But the same exaggerated figures of rhetoric are found in what the preachers say upon this subject; and it is impossible to conceive why their gestures do not turn all that is most serious into mockery. Hardly ever in Italy do we meet in the august function of the pulpit, with a true accent or a natural expression.

Oswald, weary of the most tiresome of all monotony--that of affected vehemence, went to the Coliseum, to hear the Capuchin who was to preach there in the open air, at the foot of one of those altars which mark out, within the enclosure, what is called _the Stations of the Cross_. What can offer a more noble subject of eloquence than the aspect of this monument, of this amphitheatre, where the martyrs have succeeded to the gladiators! But nothing of this kind must be expected from the poor Capuchin, who, of the history of mankind, knows no more than that of his own life. Nevertheless, if we could be insensible to the badness of his discourse, we should feel ourselves moved by the different objects that surround him. The greater part of his auditors are of the confraternity of the _Camaldoli_; they are clad during their religious exercises in a sort of grey robe, which entirely covers the head and the whole body, with two little holes for the eyes. It is thus that the spirits of the dead might be represented. These men, who are thus concealed beneath their vestments, prostrate themselves on the earth and strike their breasts. When the preacher throws himself on his knees crying for _mercy and pity_, the congregation throw themselves on their knees also, and repeat this same cry, which dies away beneath the ancient porticoes of the Coliseum. It is impossible at this moment not to feel the most religious emotion; this appeal from earthly misery to celestial good, penetrates to the inmost sanctuary of the soul. Oswald started when all the audience fell on their knees; he remained standing, not to join in a worship foreign to his own; but it was painful to him that he could not associate publicly with mortals of any description, who prostrated themselves before God. Alas! is there an invocation of heavenly pity that is not equally suited to all men?

The people had been struck with the fine figure and foreign manners of Lord Nelville, but were by no means scandalized at his not kneeling down. There are no people in the world more tolerant than the Romans; they are accustomed to visitors who come only to see and observe; and whether by an effect of pride or of indolence, they never seek to instil their opinions into others. What is more extraordinary still, is, that during Holy Week particularly, there are many among them who inflict corporal punishment upon themselves; and while they are performing this flagellation, the church-doors are open, and they care not who enters. They are a people who do not trouble their heads about others; they do nothing to be looked at; they refrain from nothing because they are observed; they always proceed to their object, and seek their pleasure without suspecting that there is a sentiment called vanity, which has no object, no pleasure, except the desire of being applauded.