ante-chamber, which we cross at their heels. They raise a door-curtain which opens upon the first pontifical drawing-room, and retire backwards with many reverences.

Four drawing-rooms follow each other, vacant; on the ceilings are frescoes painted; the walls are hung with woolen tapestries or adorned with panels of various kinds which form the frames for canvas. Some of these frescoes, tapestries and canvases, which represent events in the life of Christ or in church history, are very fine. There are no other decorations; a carpet on the wooden floor, as is customary at Rome in winter; some stools of waxed oak; a copper brasero, a gilded bracket with twisted legs and medallions, propping a crucifix, are the only furniture of the pontifical drawing-rooms.

The third room to which we come is in the same style, only beneath its canopy is seen a red velvet arm-chair of wood and with gilt fringe. It is the throne of the pontiff. A group of some ten prelates in violet cloaks talk together in a low voice. Four Franciscans, clad in a coarse stuff, draw themselves humbly away behind the marble uprights near the door; they cross their hands in their woolen sleeves, the edges of which partly hide a rosary of large beads; their eyes cast down in meditation brighten their venerable beards, which spread out their silver threads upon the breast; their bare feet are coarse and reddened by the air. They seem embarrassed at finding themselves at court. In the recess of a window a Camaldule in a white woolen robe reads his breviary. Near him the Capuchin Archbishop of Iconium, Monsignor Luigi Puecher Passavalli, who made the opening speech at the last council, is engaged in a political discussion with three Roman nobles in frock-coats. He is a sturdy prelate, white of beard, gray and quick of eye, open of countenance. His violet skullcap and his silken mantle of the color of dead leaves lend something severely theatrical to his monastic costume. A poor old Sabine cure hides his confusion in the twilight cast by these princes of the Church. His eyes are moist, a shiver makes his bowed shoulders tremble under a cloak of honor, doubtless the same which he put on the day of his taking orders; its material has turned a greener shade than the thatch of his parsonage. Like the aged Simeon coming to salute the child of Bethlehem, he has come down from his mountain to be blessed by the Holy Father.

Through the windows the magnificent hills of Rome appear, entirely covered with their

buildings, and stretch away in waves at the foot of the Vatican; the cupolas seem to prostrate themselves before the palace of the pontiff. One might suppose it all a show arranged for his eyes. Not far off, at the end of the open gallery of John XXIII., the cross of Savoy floats on Fort Saint Angelo in place of the gold and purple flag of the Church,gold and silver since the days of Pius VII.

Piedmont trumpets are heard on the bank of the castle moats, and they send their mocking blare to the pontifical throne itself. Suddenly the cannon roars. It is the signal for mid-day, the royal troops having preserved this ancient custom.

At this moment a cardinal, followed by two domestic prelates, enters and disappears by a door which leads to the private apartnient of the Pope. His entrance causes a stir which brings me near to the Archbishop of Iconium; Monsignor Ricci presents me to him, and the archbishop asks for news of Mgr. Dupont, Bishop of Azoth, who left Siam, where he had lived thirty years, to assist at the Ecumenical Council of 1869.

The little door which opened just now opens again. Two officers of the old pontifical army advance slowly; they are of noble family, to judge by their distinguished bearing. After them come two chamberlains, bearing the one the papal hat, purple, with gold tassels, the other a breviary, and take their places beneath the principal doorway.

The Pope enters the throne-hall.

Behind him march the cardinals Berardi and Guidi, Mgr. Pacca, Mgr. Ricci and a few prelates of his house.

All present put one knee to the ground.

This old man, entirely clad in white, white of hair, with blanched wrinkles on his face, as if the blood had departed, inspires you immediately with a very great respect. One might say it was an apparition of a phantom of snow. His girdle of white moire glitters on the background of his robe, like a blade of ice. The gold chain which he wears on his neck, his red slippers, and his glance still bright, throw a mysterious splendor on that whiteness. His body has remained strong; he has resisted his eighty winters. His step is easy; his face of an exceeding gentleness, noble and mobile, has preserved a beam of youthfulness. His forehead is burdened less than usual with cares; last Sunday his little niece, Mme. la Comtesse Maria-Pia Mastai-Ferreti, took the veil of the Oblates at the convent of Tor di Specchi. That religious festival made his heart young again.

Pio Nono in his left hand holds a letter be

hind his back; his right blesses the persons who happen to be on his way. He first speaks a few words to a cardinal, then to one of the three persons in frock-coats, then to the Archbishop of Iconium, with whom he converses for a moment. I am at the side of Mgr. Passavalli; Mgr. Ricci, who had the goodness to announce me to the Holy Father a little before, gives my name.

"Ah, you then are the former General-inchief of the forces of the Kingdom of Siam ?"

"Yes, Most Holy Father."

"I was very sincerely afflicted by the death of the King of Siam, whom I loved because of the protection he afforded to the Catholic missionaries. Has his successor the same sentiments ?”

"Yes, Most Holy Father, Prince Maha Chulalon Korn follows in the steps of his illustrious father."

The Pope asked one of his chamberlains for the King of Siam's letter written in September, 1852, and which was presented to him by two young Siamese under the guidance of Mgr. Pallegoix, Bishop of Mallos, and Apostolical Vicar of Siam.

Here is a passage from that curious letter, which, in accordance with the epistolary custom of Somdetch - Phra - Paramendr - MahaMongkut, is a very long one :

"I am not yet a believer in Christ; I am a pious follower of Buddhism; but I only hold to the philosophy of that religion, which has been disfigured by fables so monstrous and absurd that it seems to me it will soon disappear from the world. Your Holiness may be fully persuaded that in my reign there will be no persecutions of Christians, and that the Roman Catholics, especially protected, shall never be employed in any superstitious rite contrary to their religion, which matters I have charged the Bishop of Mallos to explain to your Holiness."

"And he keeps his promise, does he not, General ?"

"Perfectly, Most Holy Father."

"So much the better, for I am not disquieted in that direction. Would to God that as much could be said of other parts of the earth! Shall you stay long in Rome?"

"Not as long as I could wish, Most Holy Father. I shall pass but a few weeks here."

"Nevertheless there is much to be learned for men who are interested in politics."

"Very true, Most Holy Father; but your Holiness knows that in this world one never does what one wishes."

"Have you still your family?" "That happiness has gone, Holy Father. I lost them all in the French war."

He gives me his benediction, and then turns toward a prelate who hands him a petition. Cardinal Berardi puts on his shoulders a purple mantle, bordered all about with clota of gold. Pio Nono takes the head of the procession, stopping now and then and speaking a few graceful words. We follow him across the four drawing-rooms which we had already passed through. We cut diagonally the vestibule of the crimson lackeys and in his train reach a grand drawing-room where fifty persons are ranged along the walls. The ladies are in black with false mantillas. The Holy Father makes the circuit of the whole room, says a word to each stranger, stops for five minutes near an ancient lady, who bursts into tears and crouches upon the ground, so profound is her emotion. Sobs choke her voice; she has difficulty in making herself understood. Pio Nono consoles her in a truly paternal manner. Then he addresses a few words in a firm voice and in French to the persons gathered about him. We kneel; he gives his general benediction and goes out by the vestibule, followed by his court, passes the guard-room, where the Swiss present arms to him on their knees, and proceeds to take his promenade in the library, the weather being too uncertain to descend into the gardens of the Vatican.

Every day this ceremony is repeated.

At

Pius the Ninth rises at six in the morning, alone and without aid from a chamberlain, in spite of his extreme old age. Having performed his meditation, he rings for his chamberlain, who watches in a room adjoining his, and proceeds to read his mass in the pontincal chapel, assisted by his Grand Almoner, Mgr. de Merode, Archbishop of Mitylene, and his sacristan, Mgr. Marinelle, Archbishop of Porphiry. A quarter of an hour later he takes a light meal, receives Cardinal Antonelli, opens his letters, gives audiences. half-past eleven or at mid-day his promenade begins. At two o'clock he dines, eating little and drinking Bordeaux wine, which the sisterhood of St. Joseph of Bordeaux send him He rests himself until about four on an extension chair. Then he receives the cardinals, the religious orders; studies the matters submitted to him. At seven the official receptions are opened until nine o'clock; he goes to bed at half-past ten or eleven o'clock. He no longer leaves the Vatican; this impres sionable pontiff, who used to love the acclamations of the populace, wears mourning

is palace. At Rome there are no longer er religious fêtes or pontifical. The Pope is said to be kind and tender, a man of impressions. Rarely does he back from a first emotion; men and gs please him or displease him at first t, and preserve in his eyes their agreeable lisagreeable physiognomy. This sponta

In

neity of resolve, which proceeds from a great delicacy of the perceptive faculties, renders him a person moulded with difficulty. truth, the great art of Cardinal Antonelli, by which he has preserved the favor of the sovereign through a long reign of twenty-seven years, has been to discover his faintest thoughts and to conform himself to them.

The Atlantic Disaster and its Lessons.

It is a good time, after the first horror of the disaster to the steamship Atlantic has passed away, to consider and discuss, with calmness and candor, the question as to the responsibility for that wholesale sacrifice of the lives of innocent and trustful passengers. Where was the blame? We are not inclined to place it at the door of Capt. Williams' chart-room. It is no more than just to believe that he did the best he knew how to do. His own safety was involved with that of his passengers, and his action after the wreck showed that he considered his own life worth

saving as well as that of his passengers. Was he considerately cautious under the circumstances in which he found himself? Probably not. Did he prove himself to be a good navigator? We think not. Would the ship have been lost in the hands of a man who understood the dangers of the coast, and thoroughly felt the tremendous responsibilities of his office? Possibly not-probably not. But who placed

Capt. Williams in command of the ship? Who but the same company that sent him out of port with a shamefully small supply of coal, and thus forced him into the circumstances which he proved himself to be incompetent to meet and master?

If Capt. Williams was an incompetent navigator, the fact must have been known to the company as well before as after the disaster. His life has not been hid under a bushel. He has commanded steamers sailing between New York and Liverpool for years. If there was anything in his character, habits or nautical education, which made him anything less than the best man possible for his place, the company knew it, or, if they did not know it, ought to have known it. Primarily, then, the company is responsible for every mistake that Capt. Williams made, and for everything culpable-if there was anything culpable in his mismanagement. That he made great and awfully fatal mistakes, is evident enough, but we go no further than this in awarding blame to him. We are willing to believe that he did the best he

knew; but the question is: Was the best he knew the best that was known? If not-and we believe that the general conviction is that it was not--then we must hold the company responsible for placing him in a position of such tremendous responsibility. They are responsible for their commander; they are responsible for sending him to sea unprepared for the exigencies of the voyage; they are responsible for all the death and woe that have resulted from their course. If Capt. Williams was not the man for his place, he ought not to have been in it.

It is time that the American people, who furnish three-quarters of the fares of the finest lines, should know something of the dangers to which they are subjected by the foreign owners and commanders of the vessels which furnish the only means of transport to European shores. Tens of thousands of our best people are going back and forth every year on these lines. The world does not possess another line of ocean travel so freighted with life and treasure as this, or one which demands, from the interests involved, such faultless vessels and such thorough seamanship and high character on the part of those engaged in its management. We trust to these commanders our own lives, and the lives of our children and friends.

In these days, any sphere of industry commands the man it pays for. The world is so full of enterprise and the opportunities for wealth, that a cheap place, as a rule, can only get and retain a cheap man. One of the best captains afloat said the other day in our hearing: "A good man must either be hard up, or have a little money invested, to afford to be a captain in the Anglo-American service." The remark has moved us to make inquiry into the matter, and we find that the pay of a captain in this service is, on *some lines, from £300 to £400 a year, with a bonus of £150 if no accidents occur, and on others from £300 to £500, without a bonus. In our money the salary of a captain is, therefore, from $1,500 to $2,500 a year. His board upon the ship is, of course, free. How do these wages appear to those who are compelled to trust their lives and their possessions to such men as can be hired by them? It ought to be stated, too, in this connection, that in the EnglishAustralian Steamship service, the captains receive a thousand pounds a year-small wages enough, to be sure-but why is this difference made? Does any one doubt that the Australian line absolutely commands by its liberality the best seamanship in the market? Why should the lines that convey such multitudes of Americans in their eabins and such crowds in their steerage be subjected to this disadvantage? know that there are, in the Anglo-American service, as good captains as there are in the world, but they are men who are forced to remain there by circumstances. How are their places to be made good when they retire? Are their wages such as to make their places a prize to be sought by the young men who are laying their plans of life? As a rule, these Lines will get just what they pay for-that is, they

We

will get cheap men, and to these men all Americans who desire to visit Europe are obliged to trust their lives and their treasures.

The first officer in the Anglo-American service gets about £15, or $75 a month, or $900 a year-what we pay to an ordinary clerk. The second officer gets $50 a month, or six hundred dollars a year; the third officer $30 a month, and the fourth $25. To men receiving these latter sums the Atlantic was committed when she plunged upon the rocks, with her priceless freight of human life. These sums correspond closely to what we pay our waiters and men of all work about the house, while they would not hire, in New York, a first-class waiter or a butler. The idea is horrible, but the facts are as we state them, or we have been misinformed by one who has the best opportunity of knowing them. What must generally be the class of men who can be hired at these wages? When this question is rationally answered, we can form some conception of the risks we are compelled to run by the parsimony of companies whose cabins we crowd with passengers, and who can hardly find room for the enormous freights which we commit to them?

We know of no way to secure a safer service but by holding the companies rendering it to a strict accountability. They are accountable for their ships, for their supplies, and for their commanders. If they wish for better captains-nay, if they wish to secure the best service of those they have-let those commanders hold a place whose wages are a prize wort! holding, and make that place so high that young men of the best talents and character will look upon it as worth seeking. Let it be given to no man until it can be given as the reward of eminent character and eminent seamanship. As the facts stand to-day, we have no hesitation in saying that the niggardliness of these Anglo-American lines is a shame to their owners and managers, and that, until it is corrected, we have a perfect right to hold them criminally responsible for all the disasters that occur to them through the care lessness or ignorance of their employés.

Conscience and Courtesy in Criticism. THE lack of sound value in current literary criticism, both in this country and Europe, is notorious. It is so much the work of cliques and schools, or so much the office of men who have a chronic habit of find ing fault, or so coarse in its personalities, or so incompetent in its judgments through haste and insufficient examination, that it is rarely instructive either to the authors reviewed or to the public. The average column of book notices in a daily paper quite valueless, by necessity. It is impossible that the reviewer read the books he is expected by the publisher to notice, and so he gives his crude and unconsidered dicta concerning them, going through his pile in a single morning, and helping to make or mar the repstation of their authors, apparently without dreaming how tender the interests are which he handles so carelessly. He seems to forget that all the influence of

is