full canonicals marched by with stately steps, preceded by the cross, and bearing the consecrated elements which they were to administer to the Pope; they remained with him about twenty minutes, and again the doors were thrown open, and they came out with the same forms. The Sacrament was succeeded by the breakfast service of gold, which it would have made any amateurs of Benvenuto Cellini's workmanship envious to see. At last the breakfast was ended, and I began to hope there was some chance of our suspense terminating, when there was a great movement among the crowd at one end of the gallery, the pages rushed to their posts, flung back the two doors, and the Prime Minister, Cardinal Antonelli, entered. Standing in that old palace, and gazing on the Priest Premier, I could realize the times of Mazarin and Richelieu. Neither of these could have possessed a haughtier eye than Antonelli, or carried themselves more proudly: every action spoke the man self-possessed and confident in the greatness of his position. He is tall, thin, about forty-four or forty-five, of a dark and somewhat sallow complexion, distinguished not by the regularity or beauty of his features, but by the calmness and dignity of their expression. As the mass moved to let him pass to the Papal apartments at the other extremity of the gallery, there was nothing flurried in his manner or hurried in his step--he knew to a nicety the precise mode of courtesy which he should show to each of his worshipers; for instance, when the French general--ay, the rough soldier of the camp--bent to kiss his hand, he drew it back, and spoke a few low, complimentary words as he bowed low to him, always graciously, almost condescendingly. When the Roman princes wished to perform the same salute his hand met their lips half-way. When the crowd of abbes, monks, priests, and deacons, seized it, it passed on unresistingly from mouth to mouth, as though he knew that blessing was passing out of him, but that he found sufficient for all. I was beginning to marvel what had become of my little friend of the preceding evening, Don Pietro, when I observed a slight stoppage, occasioned by some one falling at the Cardinal's feet. It was Don Pietro. He had knelt down to get a better hold of the hanging fringes, and no power could withdraw them from his lips; he appeared determined to exhaust their valuable savor, and, for the first time, I saw a smile on Antonelli's countenance, which soon changed into a look of severity, which so frightened the little abbate that he gave up his prey. Cardinal Antonelli went in to the Pope, and expectation and patience had to be renewed. Then came all the deputations in succession, men with long parchments and long faces of anxiety. There could not have been less than eight or ten of these, who all returned from the interview looking very bright and contented, ejaculating "_Quanto e buono! quanto buono!_" To my great disappointment, a very officious little gentleman, who, it