Another style of amusement, very different from this last, called us
out, two or three days ago, to hear the famous Passione de Metastasio
sung in St. Celso's church. The building is spacious, the architecture
elegant, and the ornaments rich. A custom too was on this occasion
omitted, which I dislike exceedingly; that of deforming the beautiful
edifices dedicated to God's service with damask hangings and gold lace
on the capitals of all the pillars upon days of gala, so very
perversely, that the effect of proportion is lost to the eye, while the
church conveys no idea to the mind but of a tattered theatre; and when
the frippery decorations fade, nothing can exclude the recollection of
an old clothes shop. St. Celso was however left clear from these
disgraceful ornaments: there assembled together a numerous and
brilliant, if not an attentive audience; and St. Peter's part in the
oratorio was sung by a soprano voice, with no appearance of peculiar
propriety to be sure; but a satirical nobleman near me said, that
"Nothing could possibly be more happily imagined, as the mutilation of
poor St. Peter was continuing daily, and in full force;" alluding to the
Emperor's rough reformations: and he does not certainly spare the coat
any more than Jack in our Tale of a Tub, when he is rending away the
embroidery. Here, however, the parallel must end; for Jack, though
zealous, was never accused of burning the lace, if I remember right,
and putting the gold in his pocket. It happened oddly, that chatting
freely one day before dinner with some literary friends on the subject
of coat armour, we had talked about the Visconti serpent, which is the
arms of Milan; and the spread eagle of Austria, which we laughingly
agreed ought to _eat double _ because it had _two necks_: when the
conversation insensibly turned on the oppressions of the present hour;
and I, to put all away with a joke, proposed the _fortes Homericæ_ to
decide on their future destiny. Somebody in company insisted that _I_