first named came on to the Eternal City by train, arriving in time for the Papal benediction, but too late to take part in the Conclave. The Bostonian left for Rome by motor, thinking thereby to save time and trouble, but the god of machines and the spirit of the road ordained otherwise, and Cardinal O'Connell arrived to find everything over except the coronation. Behold," concluded the Italian newspapers," the triumph of simplicity!"

The Mater was greatly elated to learn of the arrival of our Cardinal, for on him she staked her chances of being present at the coronation. All our besiegings of the American College had been resultless; we had got no farther than the flower-bedecked court with its gurgling fountain and its far from gurgling custodian. Here we had met with a discouraging series of negatives.

"Are there any invitations to the coronation?" we asked by way of overture.

"No," was the brief reply of the doorkeeper.

"Will there be any ?" inquired the Mater. "No," said the man, closing the door.

"Are visitors to be admitted ?" I hastened to ask, thrusting my foot in the diminishing opening.

"No," again said the doorkeeper.

"Will Cardinal Gibbons be able to procure invitations for us?" inquired Patricia, in the tone she usually reserves for eligible young

"Is there anything else you could say 'No' to?" asked the Mater, politely, preparing to embark in a waiting cab.

"No," answered the doorkeeper, without the vestige of a smile. And then he closed the door.

The evening papers announced where Cardinal Gibbons might be found; he was established in a huge building in the Street of the Four Fountains, near the Via Nazionale, and there I went, card in hand. This was Saturday morning, and the coronation had been set for the morrow, Sunday, at half after nine in the morning. From the busy street I passed into a cool courtyard, beautiful with trees, plants, and flowers, and was conducted

upstairs to a spacious, softly lighted salon, its wainscoted walls and vaulted ceiling but dimly seen in the light that percolated through the drawn blinds. I had not waited long when Cardinal Gibbons's secretary appeared, a handsome young man with a winning smile and a frank, manly American way about him. In answer to my request, he said that as yet they had received no invitations, but expected some when the Cardinal returned from the Vatican, which would not be until late, but he would give him my card at once and see what could be done.

Invitations were to be very limited, he added; but would I come back at six or seven o'clock? I might find invitations awaiting me. And, with a hearty hand-shake that cheered me far more than the words, I departed. At the luncheon table Patricia and I acknowledged defeat, and every one said or looked "I told you so." But the Mater was still optimistic. At seven I went to find the coveted invitations awaiting me. Dinner that night was a festa for us. The Mater went so far as to order a bottle of Orvieto to celebrate her triumph, to say nothing of the humbling of all the other table d'hôters.

The next day, Sunday, the morning of the coronation, dawned warm and clear. We partook of our Continental breakfast on the terrace overlooking the Eternal City.

The Mater and Patricia appeared in black semi-evening gowns with strange, Spanishlooking scarfs of black lace draped over their heads. They distinctly suggested a somber sort of cozy corner, but the effect was charming, nevertheless. Patricia was rather suggestive of masked balls and moonlit nights in the Alhambra; but somehow the Mater's costume seemed not at all bizarre; the effect of the black scarf against her gray hair was distinctive and charming. It mattered not whether the costume was becoming or the reverse, for one had had to wear it or stay at home, and rather than have missed the coronation the Mater would have sallied forth in a ballet skirt and pink stockings. As for myself, I wore evening clothes and white tie, and felt like a waiter in a cheap café.

Our cab had been ordered for half-past eight, but, being a Roman cab, it came a quarter of an hour earlier and waited, with the taxi ticking expensively. By half-past eight we were ready to start, and as I told the cocchiere to drive to the Bronze Doors of the Vatican-the entrance we were instructed

to use he seemed greatly impressed and asked if we were going to the coronation of the new Pope. I answered in the affirmative, and off we started at a breakneck speed, down through the Piazza di Spagna, past the flower-covered Spanish Stairs, along the Tiber, where the new quays make Rome almost Parisian, across the Bridge of Sant' Angelo, past Hadrian's Tomb, where our modest taxicab joined an interminable line of other cabs, private carriages, and motors stretching toward St. Peter's as far as the eye could reach.

Patricia and the Mater commented on the absence of the bright blues, greens, and oranges of the Italian uniforms, but no member of the Italian army is permitted to enter the Vatican in uniform, for since the separation of Church and State the Vatican has never in any way acknowledged the Italian Government. When this Government came into power, it offered the Papacy 2,750,000 lire ($550,000) per annum, which has never been accepted; the accumulation lapses to the Government every five years, and cannot afterwards be recovered.

Even at this early hour the Piazza of St. Peter's was thronged, and as our carriage moved slowly along the snakelike line that coiled toward Bernini's right-hand colonnade we seemed to be floating through a sea of upturned faces, so thick were the people massed about our carriage wheels. At last

the colonnade was reached. Here a line of carabiniere kept back the crowd, but these Government policemen may not cross the threshold of the Vatican; there the Papal gendarmes have full sway.

With this well-dressed, chattering Italian throng we passed through the Bronze Doors, where we and our invitations were closely inspected by a tall Swiss Guard, in his queerly jumbled uniform of yellow, black, and red, unchanged since the time of Michael Angelo, whose design they are. We then mounted by the Scala Regia, that famous and really beautiful stairway designed by the Bernini of the colonnades and built by Pope Urban VIII. We rushed through the Sala Regia, built during the reign of Paul III by Antonio di Sangallo, and used as a hall of audience for Ambassadors. We had but a glance at Vasari's famous frescoes, which include that of "The Return of Gregory XI from Avignon."

The Sala Ducale was a mass of humanity, for through this long, rather ornate room his Holiness would pass on his way to his

coronation. At one end were four long marble steps; at the base of these rested the sedia gestatoria, the chair in which the Pope is borne high above the throng; in letters of gold across the back was the name of Leo XIII, the well-beloved. Against the wall stood the immense candles in holders of gold and the two lofty triumphal feather fans which are carried on high by bearers attired in red tunics embroidered with silk-fans of the exact pattern and design of those seen in frescoes of pre-Christian periods.

From where the sedia gestatoria rested on a silk rug a straight aisle led toward the Sistine Chapel, passing beneath the delightfully pagan cupids holding aloft a baldacchino of marble. This aisle was outlined with benches, before which the Papal Guard stood in an almost solid row as far as the eye could see. On either side the good-natured crowd moved here and there, a laughing, cheery crowd of men and women in black and white; many of the men, tall, erect, handsome, were officers in the Italian army, who may not wear their uniforms, nor even a national medal, in the Papal territory.

These black and white costumes made an effective background for the various Papal officers and men, who moved to and fro, imparting to the ceremony a color that we do not have at home; the whole pontifical family-assistant prelates, the patriarchs, the archbishops, and the bishops—with vestments and miters of gold; the Camerieri Segreti Partecipanti in violet silk, the Camerieri Partecipanti of the cape and the sword in black velvet Renaissance costumes, with ruffs and golden chains; the whole innumerable ecclesiastical suite, the chaplains, the prelates of every class and degree; the gendarmes, with their enormous busbies; the Palatine Guards in blue trousers and black tunics; the Swiss Guards uniformed in red, yellow, and black, with breastplates of silver; and the renowned Noble Guards, superb in their high boots, white pigskins, scarlet tunics, gold laces and helmets. What a gorgeous sight it was!

The twilight of the Sistine Chapel lay beyond, clearly visible, but the dense crowd blocked the way. The Mater, Patricia, and I were ushered to seats on the long line of benches along which the Pope and his suite must pass. Patricia had been improving her

time by making eyes at a tall, good-looking Noble Guard-she denied the accusation, but both the Mater and I saw her-and it

was she who obtained for us the seats so near to where his Holiness would pass that we could have touched him without unduly stretching our arms. He said the Noble Guard, not the Pope-that we could get in the Sistine Chapel after the procession had passed now it would be an impossibility.

A little after half-past nine a shout such as we had never heard before arose, a mighty roar, piling sound upon sound, the high-pitched voices of women mingling with the deeper ones of the men, forming one huge crashing chord of human tones. By standing on tiptoe we could see that Benedict XV had entered the long hall, descended the marble steps, and was seating himself in the sedia gestatoria. First came the cardinals, putting on their miters as they passed, their scarlet gowns covered with long white mantles embroidered with gold, and many adorned with precious stones that sparkled as they walked. At the rear, nearest the Holy Father, came Cardinal Gibbons, his sweet, kindly face in profound repose, his eyes gazing straight ahead to where the candles in the Sistine Chapel flickered beyond a screen of gold.

Following the cardinals came six candlebearers, and then, high above the people, borne on the shoulders of sixteen men, appeared Benedict XV. Above him the flabelli waved those great feather fans which formerly were waved before the Emperors of pagan Rome. He looked neither to the right nor to the left as he passed, blessing the people with the three movements of the hand which signify the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Attired in the smallest of the three white vestmentsthere are three always kept on hand, a small one, a middle size one, and a large one, so as to be suited to the cardinal who may be elected-every few moments he lifted his left hand to adjust the heavy golden headcovering that continually became displaced. His intellectual, determined, masculine face was very pale; the hand that dispensed the blessing trembled; and behind the spectacles which, as in all his photographs, sit unevenly upon his nose, his eyes seemed tender and a little sad.

Thus he passed, first into the Pauline Chapel, where are two almost forgotten frescoes of Michael Angelo—“ The Crucifixion of St. Peter" and "The Coronation of St. Paul." It is here that the three little piles of hemp are lighted before the Pope; as they flare up, one after the other, a solemn voice is

heard saying, "Thus pass the things of this world." And the procession moves again into the Sistine Chapel, the crowning glory of the greatest artist who has ever lived. Within its consecrated walls the first Papal mass of Benedict XV was said. The dense crowd interfered with our vision, but the superb music drifted solemnly toward where we stood by the wall, and, although the screen that cut the chapel hall in two hid most of the ceremony, it did not hide that wonderful ceiling of Michael Angelo's, which makes everything human of small account. Beneath the pity and the horror of the "Last Judgment the ceremony went on and on, and the music rose and fell like waves upon a distant shore. About us in this chapel, built by Baccio Pintelli in 1473—a score of years before the discovery of America-for Sixtus IV, are some of the greatest masterpieces of the Renaissance: frescoes by Perugino, Sandro Botticelli, Ghirlandajo, Lucca Signorelli, and, above all, dwarfing all else, that ceiling which still remains the artistic triumph of all times.

As the chapel grew hot and unbearably close, we went out to promenade the terrace overlooking the courtyard of S. Damaso, which was full of waiting motor cars and restless horses. Beyond, across the Eternal City, one saw the long yellow line of the King's Palace, formerly the summer palace of the reigning Pope, and we could not but wonder how long this could continue, the King of Italy and the Pope gazing at each other across the city for which they had both fought, the defeated one refusing to acknowledge the victor, waiting patiently, quietly, a voluntary prisoner-waiting—waiting for what?

When we returned, refreshed by the sunshine and air of the courtyard, the mass was almost ended. Lighted candles flickered beyond the screen of gold; the odor of sweltering humanity mingling with the fragrance of incense hung heavy in the air. In a little while the procession reformed, and, led as before by the cardinals, the Pope was borne aloft amid his applauding people, his triple crown upon his head, a smile upon his pale, thoughtful face, the pagan feathers floating on before him like two enormous birds of victory, his hand raised in benediction. Thus ended the solemn ceremony, and we found ourselves in the midday glare of the Piazza of St. Peter's, our evening clothes looking out of place as we called madly for a cab.

Rome, Italy.

OR the ten years preceding the Civil War a slave insurrection had been dreaded. The raid of John Brown had thrown, not the State of Virginia only, but the entire Atlantic slave States, into a panic. The history of the war proved this dread to be without just cause. The Negroes remained at home raising the crops while their masters fought in the field to keep them in slavery. In some cases this patient waiting of the slaves may have been due to a habit of abject submission which they had not the will power to break; in many cases it was due to a feeling of loyalty by the slaves toward the masters and mistresses, for between them had grown up a peculiar feeling of attachment which the North has never understood-loyalty of service on the one hand, loyalty of protection on the other. But more important than either was the religious faith of the Negrosuperstitious, some think it; rational, I think it. The Negro is something of a fatalist. He realized that the problem in which he found himself, by no act of his, involved was far too great for him to understand. God was at work, and God would somehow accomplish his redemption. He could do nothing; he must wait and see the salvation of the Lord.

But the Emancipation Proclamation wrought a gradual change in his feeling, quickened his aspirations, and in hundreds of cases became a call to action. Even before the Proclamation, Negroes had flocked from their plantations to neighboring camps of the Federal armies. Benjamin F. Butler, with characteristic shrewdness, confiscated them as contraband of war, and "contrabands" they became. After the Emancipation Proclamation, the exodus of slaves increased, and their title was changed to "freedmen.” Thus gradually in all the Southern territory permanently occupied by the Federal authority there grew up camps of Negroes, many of them almost as helpless as a lost dog without his master. A race does not easily and quietly pass from a habit of dependence and submission into a habit of self-support and self-control.

Copyright, 1914, the Outlook Company.

With these Negroes, companions only in their misfortunes, were camps of white men and women fleeing from the South. Some of them were Unionists. A Northern man, realizing the contempt with which the victorious section regarded the "Copperhead," should have been able to imagine the hatred felt in the defeated South for the Unionist. But the motto "Put yourself in his place " requires more imagination than most men possess. Nor was it only Union men that fled to the territory protected by Northern armies. Secessionists, deprived of home and industry by the devastating progress of the war, fled for safety and support to the regions where war was not. And with them were many poor whites, who understood the causes and nature of the war even less than the Negroes whom they despised. Said a Confederate prisoner who had been drafted into the Southern service to a friend of mine, "What did you-uns come down to fight we-uns for?" What answer could be given to such a question with any hope that it would be understood?

What to do with these helpless colored "freedmen" and white "refugees" became the perplexing problem of every division commander as fast as his territory was cleared of Confederate forces. Rations could be, and were, provided out of the army's stores. Shelter was provided where possible out of army barracks or abandoned school-houses and churches. Here and there some fitful work was provided and some semblance of schooling. But to organize either an industrial or an educational system was beyond the power of local authorities. That this must be done for all the territories which had been devastated by the war gradually became apparent to the people of the North. It constituted the perplexing problem of Reconstruction.

It is easy, looking back, to see that the men of that generation blundered egregiously, and brought upon the country, especially the South, and most of all upon the Negro race, tragic disaster by their blunder