There is, indeed, no sense of congruity or the inherent
fitness of things about the Italian ceremonials. A priest performs mass
and elevates the host with muddy boots on, while the Pope himself, in the
midst of the grandest service, blows his nose on a common red
pocket-handkerchief. The absence of the organ detracts much from the
impressiveness of the music in English ears, while the constant bowings
and genuflexions, the drawling intonations, and the endless monotonous
psalms, all utterly devoid of meaning for a lay-worshipper, added to the
utter listlessness of the congregation, and even of the priests engaged
in celebration of the service, destroy the impression the gorgeousness of
the scene would otherwise produce.
The insuperable objection, however, to the impressiveness of the whole
scene is the same as mars all Papal pageants,--I mean the length and
monotony of the performance. One chant may be fine, one prostration
before the altar may be striking, one burst of the choral litany may act
upon your senses; but, when you have chant after chant, prostration after
prostration, chorus after chorus, each the twin brother to the other, and
going on for hours, without apparent rhyme or reason, you cease to take
thought of anything, in order to speculate idly when, if ever, there is
likely to be an end. There is no variety, and little change, too, about
the ceremonies.
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