Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 1804-1864 -- Friends and associates; Novelists, American -- 19th century -- Biography
twinkle of the candles on the altars, seen in daylight, has a jewel-like
charm. As I look back upon it, however, and contrast it with the
cathedrals of England, the total influence upon the mind of St. Peter's
seems to me voluptuous rather than religious. It is a human palace of
art more than a shrine of the Almighty. A prince might make love to a
princess there without feeling guilty of profanation. St. Peter himself,
sitting there in his chair, with his highly polished toe advanced, is
a doll for us to play with. On one occasion I was in the church with
my father, and the great nave was thronged with people and lined with
soldiers, and down the midst went slowly a gorgeous procession, with
Pope Pio Nono borne aloft, swayingly, the triple crown upon his head. He
blessed the crowd, as he passed along, with outstretched hand. One can
never forget such a spectacle; but I was not nearly so much impressed in
a religious sense as when, forty years later, I stood in the portals of
a Mohammedan mosque in Central India and saw a thousand turbaned Moslems
prostrate themselves with their foreheads in the dust before a voice
which proclaimed the presence of the awful, unseen God.
My father enjoyed the church more after each visit to it. But it was the
confessionals and their significance that most interested him. "What an
institution the confessional is! Man needs it so, that it seems as if
God must have ordained it." And he dwells upon the idea with remarkable
elaboration and persistence. Those who have followed the painful
wanderings of heart-oppressed Hilda to the carven confessional in the
great church, where she found peace, will recognize the amply unfolded
flower of this seed. What I supposed to be my notion of St. Peter's
looking like the enlargement of some liliputian edifice is also there,
though I had forgotten it till I myself reread the pages. In this book
of my memories, which is also the book of my forgettings, I must walk to
and fro freely, if I am to walk at all. None can tell the secret origin
of his thoughts.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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