Here is one from our own country. You have known
him in France. Does not he strike you as being somewhat changed? Not
in his looks, but his manner. Beneath the shadow of his own church
tower, in the midst of his own flock, he used to be the mildest, the
meekest, and most modest of parish priests. He bowed low to the Mayor,
and to the most microscopic of the authorities. At Rome, his hat seems
glued to his head. I almost think--Heaven forgive me!--it is a trifle
cocked. How jauntily his cassock is tucked up! How he struts along the
street! Is not his hand on his hip? Something very like it. The reason
of this change is as clear as the sun at noon. He is in a kingdom
governed by his own class. He inhales an atmosphere impregnated with
clerical pride and theocratic omnipotence. Phiz! It is a bottle of
champagne saluting him with the cork. By the time he has drunk all the
contents of the intoxicating beverage, he will begin to mutter between
his teeth that the French clergy does not get its deserts, and that we
are a long time in restoring to it the property taken away by the
Revolution.
I actually heard this argument maintained on board the steamer which
brought me back to France. The principal passengers were Prince
Souworf, Governor of the province of Riga, one of the most
distinguished men in Europe; M. de la Rochefoucauld, attached to the
French embassy; M. de Angelis, a highly educated and really
distinguished _mercante di campagna_; M.
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