Come, friend, let us
acknowledge this, and go and kiss the toe of St. Peter. Alas! there's the
Channel always between us; and we no more believe in the miracles of St.
Thomas of Canterbury, than that the bones of His Grace John Bird, who
sits in St. Thomas's chair presently, will work wondrous cures in the
year 2000: that his statue will speak, or his portrait by Sir Thomas
Lawrence will wink.
"So, you see, at those grand ceremonies which the Roman Church exhibits
at Christmas, I looked on as a Protestant. Holy Father on his throne or
in his palanquin, cardinals with their tails and their train-bearers,
mitred bishops and abbots, regiments of friars and clergy, relics exposed
for adoration, columns draped, altars illuminated, incense smoking,
organs pealing, and boxes of piping soprani, Swiss guards with slashed
breeches and fringed halberts;--between us and all this splendour of
old-world ceremony, there's an ocean flowing: and yonder old statue of
Peter might have been Jupiter again, surrounded by a procession of
flamens and augurs, and Augustus as Pontifex Maximus, to inspect the
sacrifices,--and my feelings at the spectacle had been, doubtless, pretty
much the same.
Pages:
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871