The Pope now, it is true,
ruled over little more than the City itself-- the Patrimony of
St.
Peter-- and he ruled there less by the Grace of God than by the
goodwill of Napoleon III; yet he was still a sovereign Prince,
and Rome was still the capital of the Papal State; she was not
yet the capital of Italy. The last hour of this strange dominion
had almost struck. As if she knew that her doom was upon her,
the Eternal City arrayed herself to meet it in all her glory.
The whole world seemed to be gathered together within her
walls. Her streets were filled with crowned heads and Princes
of the Church, great ladies and great theologians, artists
and friars, diplomats and newspaper reporters. Seven hundred
bishops were there from all the corners of Christendom,
and in all the varieties of ecclesiastical magnificence in
falling lace and sweeping purple and flowing violet veils.
Zouaves stood in the colonnade of St Peter's, and Papal
troops were on the Quirinal. Cardinals passed, hatted and
robed, in their enormous carriage of state, like mysterious
painted idols. Then there was a sudden hush: the crowd grew
thicker and expectation filled, the air. Yes! it was he! He was
coming! The Holy Father! But first there appeared, mounted on a
white mule and clothed in a magenta mantle, a grave dignitary
bearing aloft a silver cross.
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