Is the Prophecy Fulfilled?
By J. W. Horne
In the second chapter of Paul's second epistle to the Thessalonians, from the first to the fourth verse, inclusive, is recorded the following startling prophecy: “Now we beseech you, brethren, by the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ, and by our gathering together unto him, that ye be not soon shaken in mind, or be troubled, neither by spirit, nor by letter as from us, as that the day of Christ is at hand. Let no man deceive you by any means; for that day shall not come, except there come a falling away first, and that man of sin be revealed, the son of perdition; who opposeth and exalteth himself above all that is called God, or that is worshiped, so that he as God sitteth in the temple of God, showing himself that he is God.” Walking slowly and meditatively up the grand nave of St. Peter's at Rome, through marvelous groups of statuary on the right hand and on the left, and passing, after a lingering delay, the celebrated bronze canopy, ninety-two feet in height, and supporting a golden cross ninety-five feet higher—the whole upborne by four richly gilded spiral columns, under the great dome and over the high altar of white marble, and the tomb of St. Peter, surrounded by eighty-nine ever-burning lamps—you come at length to the Tribune, containing the Cathedra Petri of Bernini, enclosing, as it is said, the veritable episcopal chair of St. Peter. The conception of the artist which is embodied in this Tribune is, to my mind, at once one of the boldest and most blasphemous of human inventions. A foundation of polished marble—partly black, partly red—sweeps round with the curve of the chancel. On this platform, at suitable distances from each other, stand four colossal figures in bronze, heavily gilt, and flowing robes. These figures represent the Church on earth. The right hand of each is extended to receive a foot of the Cathedra Petri, or Throne of St. Peter—which is itself shining with golden tapestry—and to help support it on high. Then, from above, descending as it were from the bending heavens, volumes of golden clouds roll down, and touching the throne from behind assist to sustain it lifted up between heaven and earth. Beside the throne there stand guardian figures, and over it are angels holding “the keys of the church,” and the Pope's tiara. Meanwhile, among the volumes of clouds, are cherubim and seraphim, and all the host of Heaven, exulting at the elevation of the papal power over every other power of the universe; and the Holy Spirit, the Heavenly Dove, gives the sanction of the divine presence; while the beams of his glory stream out in every direction, and away beyond the sphere of the angels! While you stand gazing with awe and admiration, which you cannot, if you would, hinder from arising, you catch the grand conception of the idolatrous artist's work: it is that of the church militant and the church triumphant uniting and vieing with each other to lift up and sustain the throne of the vicegerent of Christ above every other “throne, and dominion, and principality, and power” in the world. Now, it is known long to have been decreed in the papal church that if any one of the popes should be so favored of Heaven as to continue twenty-five years in the Pontificate187, to him should be granted the special honor of a grand jubilee; and that, arrayed in his garments of purple and gold, with a golden chain about his neck, and a ring of authority on his finger, he should have the opportunity, as Vicar-General of Christ, of ascending the throne of St. Peter, in St. Peter's at Rome; and there, “sitting in the temple of God,” with cross and crown, crook and crosier, miter and scepter, of giving his blessing, as Holy Father, to the thousands upon thousands who might be gathered to do him homage, amid the peal of organs, and blare of trumpets, and shoutings of multitudes, and pomp and pageantry of church and State. It seems too bad, in this connection, to mention that right there, under the very shadows of the gorgeous Tribune, I was told that the so-called “ancient, wooden, episcopal chair of St. Peter,” enclosed in the Cathedra Petri, is believed to be nothing better than an old wooden chair of Mohammedanism brought from Constantinople, in one of the many forages made by the church. At any rate, the thing would be only in keeping with the bronze statue of Jupiter near the transept on the right—mended toward the head so as to make a statue of St. Peter, whose brazen toe has been well nigh kissed away by the lips of the faithful. Did any of them ever hear of Madame de Staël's excuse for this and other deceptions of the holy Mother Church? “We shame not,” says that profound critic in Corinne, “in pagan trophies which art has hallowed. The wonders of genius always awaken holy feelings in the soul, and we pay homage to Christianity in tribute to all the best works that other faiths have inspired.” Well might “Oswald smile at this explanation.” So do we. Descending from the Tribune, appears on the left the chapel in which sat the late Ecumenical Council, bearing on its front the inscription: “Docete omnes gentes ecce ego vobiscum, omnibus diebus, usque et consummationem sæculi.” The chapel does not look large in the surrounding magnitude of the mighty church, but it easily accommodated, with its full quota of paintings and marbles, and altars and organs, the most august body of gorgeously robed divinity that could be assembled in Christendom. It is a most remarkable and memorable fact, chronicled by the reporters, for the public press at the time, that when the great Council came to vote on the question of Papal Infallibility, at the very hour of the day, clouds and darkness unprecedented overspread the city, out of which shot fierce lightnings and burst roaring thunders, completely drowning the voices of the voters; and that when the record of the result reached was to be read, so greatly the darkness deepened that torches had to be introduced to illuminate the fearful scene and render the reading possible. But the bull of infallibility was issued, and in a day or two the Emperor of the French—“the eldest son of the Church”—declared war against Prussia. We know the sequel. The Italian army breached the walls of the Eternal City, and took possession of the capital of the Papacy; the Prussian army forced its way to Paris and took possession of the French Empire. Did not the hand of God smite the one and the other—the blaspheming Papacy and the empire which supported it—at the same moment, and did not the two Babylons—the city and the temporal power—fall together?—J. W. HORNE, in Methodist.