e certain Germans, who not only talked but stood
upon a seat to see better, and were ordered down by one of the Swiss
with a fierce "_Giu, signore, giu_!" Otherwise the guard kept good
order in the chapel, and were no doubt as useful and genuine as any
thing about the poor old Pope. What gorgeous fellows they were, and,
as soldiers, how absurd! The weapons they bore were as obsolete as the
excommunication. It was amusing to pass one of these play-soldiers on
guard at the door of the Vatican--tall, straight, beautiful, superb,
with his halberd on his shoulder--and then come to a real warrior
outside, a little, ugly, red-legged French sentinel, with his Minie on
his arm.

Except for the singing of the Pope's choir--which was angelically
sweet, and heavenly far above all praise--the religious ceremonies
affected me, like all others of that faith, as tedious and empty. Each
of the cardinals, as he entered the chapel, blew a sonorous nose; and
was received standing by his brother prelates--a grotesque company
of old-womanish old men in gaudy gowns. One of the last to come was
Antonelli, who has the very wickedest face in the world. He sat with
his eyes fastened upon his book, but obviously open at every pore
to all that went on about him. As he passed out he cast gleaming,
terrible, sidelong looks upon the people, full of hate and guile.

From where I stood I saw the Pope's face only in profile: it was
gentle and benign enough, but not great in expression, and the smile
on it almost degenerated into a simper. His Holiness had a cold; and
his _recitative_, though full, was not smooth. He was all priest
when, in the midst of the service, he hawked, held his handkerchief up
before his face, a little way off, and ruthlessly spat in it!

FORZA MAGGIORE.

I imagine that Grossetto is not a town much known to travel, for it is
absent from all the guide-books I have looked at. However, it is chief
in the Maremma, where sweet Pia de' Tolommei languished and perished
of the poisonous air and her love's cruelty, and where, so many mute
centuries since, the Etrurian cities flourished and fell. Further, one
may say that Grossetto is on the diligence road from Civita Vecchia
to Leghorn, and that in the very heart of the place there is a lovely
palm-tree, rare, if not sole, in that latitude. This palm stands in a
well-sheltered, dull little court, out of every thing's way, and turns
tenderly toward the wall that shields it on the