the wax candles, burning bright and clear, was the Madonna, her lovely countenance beaming with celestial sweetness, as she looked down upon the infant Saviour nestling in her arms—the Baptist standing at her knee, pressing the plump little foot to his lips—and there, John in the island of Patmos—his emaciated limbs staring from their scanty covering of sackcloth—and his gaunt features glowing with inspiration, as from among the cloud of scattered grey hair, and venerable beard, with upturned face, he received from the flame-encircled trumpet above him, the Holy Revelation. Here, armed cap-à-pied, the chivalrous Knights of the Temple consigned their slain brother to his rocky sepulchre, as with grim, stern, averted countenances they watched the fierce conflict and assault of the daring Infidel upon their Holy City—and there, the cross of Constantine richly emblazoned on its altar, was the _Crucifixion_, the Saviour extended on the cross—the thieves on each side of him—the head just bowed—and the awful “_It is finished!_” announced to the nations in frightful phenomena. The sun turned to blood, throwing a lurid and unnatural glare on the assembled multitude—the war-horses, riderless, rearing and plunging with distended nostrils—rolling in convulsions the solid mountains;—the affrighted soldiery, horror-stricken, wildly lifting their hands to ward off the toppling crag, which, torn from its foundation by the earthquake, was in another instant to grind them to powder—while the Roman centurion, with curling lip, holding tighter in his grasp the crimson flag, the “_S. P. Q. R._” shaking fiercely in the wild wind, seemed to deride the coward Jew, even in that dread moment, with his abject slavery—and here was San Sebastian, his eyes streaming with martyr tears—and the tinkling of a small bell struck upon my ear:—boys clad in scarlet, swung their censers to and fro, and the incense floated high above them to the vaulted arches.