To feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit
The weak and sick, to entertain the poor,
And give the dead a Christian funeral.
These were the works of piety he did practise,
And bade us imitate; not look for lovers
Or handsome images to please our senses.
The heretics, you see, need not ridicule us for bleeding our horses on St Stephen’s, and grafting our trees on the day of the Annunciation.
Many other traces of the old religion remain in the calendar, and indeed every where, but all to as little purpose. Christmas, Candlemas, Lady-day, Michaelmas; they are become mere words, and the primary signification utterly out of mind. In the map you see St Alban’s, St Neot’s, St Columb’s, &c. The churches all over the country are dedicated to saints whose legends are quite forgotten, even upon the spot. You find a statue of King Charles in the place of Charing-Cross, one of the bridges is called Black-Friars, one of the streets the Minories. There is a place called the Sanctuary, a Pater-Noster-Row, and an Ave-Maria-Lane. Every where I find these vestiges of Catholicism, which give to a Catholic a feeling of deeper melancholy, than the scholar feels amid the ruins of Rome or Athens.