As a mere matter of simple fact,
there is nothing very interesting in seeing a number of old women's feet
washed, or in beholding a number of peasants who would be much better if
the washing extended above their feet, engaged in gulping down an
unsavoury repast. The whole charm of the thing rests in the idea, and
this idea is quite extinguished by the extreme length and tediousness of
the whole proceeding. The feet have too evidently been washed before,
and the pilgrims are too palpably got up for the occasion.
The finest ceremony I have ever witnessed in Rome is the High Mass at St
Peter's on Easter-day; but as a theatrical spectacle, in which light
alone I am now speaking of it, it is marred by many palpable defects.
Whenever I have seen the Pope carried in his chair in state, I can never
help thinking of the story of the Irishman, who, when the bottom and seat
of his sedan-chair fell out, remarked to his bearers, that "he might as
well walk, but for the honour of the thing." One feels so strongly that
the Pope might every bit as well walk as ride in that ricketty, top-heavy
chair, in which he sits, or rather sways to and fro, with a sea-sick
expression. Then the ostrich feathers are so very shabby, and the whole
get-up of the procession is so painfully "not" regardless of expense. You
see Cardinals with dirty robes, under the most gorgeous stoles, while the
surplices are as yellow as the stained gold-worked bands which hang
across them.
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