eral of the order, Father
Panizzoni, a little old man bent double with age, his eyes encircled
with red, half blind, and I believe almost in his dotage. He was
shedding tears of joy, and we all maintained the pious and serious
aspect suited to the occasion, until the time arrived for the novice to
step forward, when, lo! Father Panizzoni advanced with open arms toward
the place where I stood, mistaking me for my brother; a blunder which
for a moment imperiled the solemnity of the assembly.

Had I yielded to the embrace of Father Panizzoni, it would have been a
wonderful bargain both for him and me. But this was not the only
invitation I then received to enter upon a sacerdotal career. Monsignor
Morozzo, my great-uncle and god-father, then secretary to the bishops
and regular monks, one day proposed that I should enter the
Ecclesiastical Academy, and follow the career of the prelacy under his
patronage. The idea seemed so absurd that I could not help laughing
heartily, and the subject was never revived.

Had I accepted these overtures, I might in the lapse of time have long
since been a cardinal, and perhaps even Pope. And if so, I should have
drawn the world after me, as the shepherd entices a lamb with a lump of
salt. It was very wrong in me to refuse. Doubtless the habit of
expressing my opinion to every one, and on all occasions, would have led
me into many difficulties. I must either have greatly changed, or a very
few years would have seen an end of me.

We left Rome at last, in the middle of winter, in an open carriage, and
traveling chiefly by night, as was my father's habit. While the horses
are trotting on, I will sum up the impressions of Rome and the Roman
world which I was carrying away. The clearest idea present to my mind
was that the priests of Rome and their religion had very little in
common with my father and Don Andreis, or with the religion professed by
them and by the priests and the devout laity of Turin. I had not been
able to detect the slightest trace of that which in the language of
asceticism is called unction. I know not why, but that grave and
downcast aspect, enlivened only by a few occasional flashes of ponderous
clerical wit, the atmosphere depressing as the _plumbeus auster_ of
Horace, in which I had been brought up under the rule of my priest,--all
seemed unknown at Rome. There I never met with a monsignore or a priest
who did not step out with a pert and jaunty air, his head erect, s