The Chanute times. [volume] (Chanute, Kan.) 1897-1913, 1908-04-17
Nnly llBetk
1T RntttR
1I1nnderful Easter Srrutrrs
fIpld IN Old st. PETERS
by
1nra GrrrnruelI 7l1rGlresnPp

IneXhaustible in its mystic signifl-
canoe, the Holy Week in Rome, how
ever familiar to the memory or I'M
agination, stirs always renewed
wonder in those who witness 1t.
Above all else Rome is a city of
memories. The walls and arches of
imperial days, the Renaissance pal
aces, and the churches which mark
every step in the long march from
primitive Christianity to papal SUI
premacy-these stamp themselves on
the mind. The homogeneous modern
elements are as transitory in their
impression as is the whirling dust
from a motor car blown past the
tombs on the Appian Way.
The walls of Aurelian, the statue of
Marcus Aurelius, benignant on the
capitol, the august disarray Of the
Forum-these are actual and imperish-
able. So, too, is the spacious splen-
dor of st. Peters, with its solemn
sequence of ritual in which, as the
Holy Week advances, so mystic and
superb a drama of divinity is en-
acted.
There are many moods in which
to approach the great Easter services
in the great papal city, from that Of
the devote to whom the ever-burning
lamps round the apostles tomb marx
a spot only less sacred than that Of
the holy sepulcher itself. to that of
the casual sight-seer, who flutters his
Baedeker unabashed through the aw-
full mystery of the mass. Perhaps
those do not see least of the signifi-
canoe who look on the magnificent
ceremonies with a haunting conscious
ness of Rome's twofold greatness, and
who never quite lose sight of the city
of the Caesars in the city Of the
saints.
1t is impossible even to approach
st. Peters, where most of us choose
to see the services, in spite of the ri
val claims Of the Lateran, mother of
churches-it is impossible to reach
the curving colonnades and mighty
front without passing by memorials of
an earlier, hostile life and creed. Per
haps in driving thither the wanderer
may catch a glimpse of the immortal
pair, the Great Twin Brethren, who
guard in stone the stairs to the CAPT
toll Or, it may be, the shattered ma.
jestic columns of the temple of Mars
Ultor have lifted for a moment their
stern memorial of Caesars death and
Augustus vengeance.
Once within st. Peters, however,
conflicting memories fall away. lost,
as is all sense of minor faults in the
building itself, in the impression of
vastness, Of an all-enfolding and all
reconclling hospitality. That hospital
fly is taxed by the crowds which
gather for the services of Holy Week
Palm Sunday initiates the series of
elaborate ceremonies with its beauti-
full rite of blessing the palms. A mot
ley throng it is which streams up the
wide steps and gathers about the altar
above which glows in a golden halo
the holy dove. There are the foreign
sightseers, of course, made evident
by their camp-stools and red guide
books, but there are also soldiers in
picturesque variety of uniform, priests
wearing their black draperies in the
classic folds which recall the toga,
shepherds from the Campagna, beard
ed and wild-eyed in their sheepskins;
pilgrims from far countries with the
fixed visionary gaze of those who look
on their sacred places after long de-
sire.
Sacred indeed is the spot to those
who hold the faith of Rome. In front
OF the high altar with its baldacchino
the twisted bronze columns tower
Ing up superbly. yet dwarfed by the
armament of the dome above-burn
the golden. never-dying lamps which
mark the resting place, so tradition
says, Of the apostle.
But on Palm Sunday the attention
Is fixed on the altar in the Cappella
Giulia, and the pressure Of the eager
people increases cruelty as the bas-
kets Of palms are set down by the