CHAPTER III.

THE first thought in Rome is of St. Peter's. We have, of course, often been there, for when there is nothing else immediately to occupy our attention, we can repair to this mighty temple, and find a subject for study which is inexhaustible. Instead, however, of vainly attempting a description-for every effort of this kind for centuries has proved that no words can give any idea of this unrivalled edifice— we would rather note down a few of the impressions left upon the mind.

The way which led to it was through a series of narrow winding streets, crowded with a miserable population, deeply demoralized, and crushed to the earth by indigence. At length we reached the Castle of St. Angelo, and from this spot a broad avenue opened before us to the massive colonnades of St. Peter's. Our first view of the exterior by daylight disappointed us, for when seen from this point it is certainly not imposing. The façade is allowed to be disproportioned to the building, and too much conceals the dome. We have since examined, in the library of the Vatican, a copy of Michael Angelo's original plan, in which this defect is avoided, and the whole front appears more grand and striking. His drawing of the façade closely resembles the portico of the Pantheon.

In the open square in front, stands an ancient obelisk,

which points up to heaven, tapering away as if it seemed to lose itself in the air. Caligula brought it from "old hushed Egypt" to adorn his baths, and a Pope placed it in front of St. Peter's. On each side of it is a fountain, which flings up its column of water, as if into the clouds, where it seems to pause for a moment, reflecting back the changing colors of the sky, and then falling into its porphyry basin, the thousand hues are lost in one dazzling sheet of foam. But who pauses to dwell on these when the temple itself is before them! We ascend the broad marble steps-put aside the heavy curtain which veils the entrance-and the sensations of the next few minutes are worth a year of common-place life.

The first effect on every one must be bewildering. He sees gathered before him treasures of art of which before he could scarcely have conceived, and all enshrined in a building which mocks any comparison with the gorgeous temple of Jerusalem, or those magnificent fanes which the worshippers of the old mythology raised to their fabled deities. For more than three centuries, the energies and wealth of thirtyfive Pontiffs were devoted to this work, and the aid of the whole Christian world was invoked to render it a temple worthy of the Most High. Eustace estimates that the building itself cost twelve millions sterling. Every where, indeed, we see marbles, bronzes, and precious materials, which were gathered in Rome during the luxurious days of the Empire, but are nowhere else to be found in such profusion. We realize, indeed, that here man has exhausted the treasures of his genius and his worldly wealth.

Almost every traveller states that his first impressions were those of disappointment. The interior did not appear as vast as he expected. The reason of this, undoubtedly is, because we have no received experience by which to judge its proportions. The eyes are "fools of the senses;" and here occurs a case in which they have not been trained to

convey a correct estimate.* But with me, I confess, this was not the case. Having been told so often that I should be disappointed, I was prepared for it, and therefore, expected too little. Slowly we passed up the nave, until we found ourselves opposite to the High Altar. Above it rises a canopy, more than a hundred and thirty feet in height, its twisted columns of Corinthian brass covered with golden foliage, while beneath rests the body of St. Peter, around whose tomb a hundred lamps are burning day and night. We stand under the dome and look up, when an abyss seems to open above us. We can scarcely believe that its top is four hundred feet from the marble pavement. The inscription on the frieze does not seem very large, yet each letter is six feet high, and the pen in the hand of St. Mark is of the same length, although from where we stand the whole figure of the saint does not appear to be much beyond the ordinary stature. The mighty dome expands above us like the firmament, and within are pictured in rich mosaic the saints and celestial spirits looking upward and worshipping towards the throne of the Eternal, which, encircled with radiance, crowns this dizzy height.

At our first visit we spent almost the whole day going over each part in detail, and every little while stopping, and vainly endeavoring by one effort of the mind to grasp the mighty proportions of the building. The figures which occasionally moved across the marble pavement seemed dwarfed

Is but of gradual grasp—and as it is
That what we have of feeling most intense
Outstrips our faint expression; even so this
Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice,

Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great,
Defies at first our nature's littleness,

Till growing with its growth, we thus dilate
Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate."
[Childe Harold.]

into pigmies, and we could scarcely realize that this vast structure, with its gorgeous profusion of paintings, and marbles, and gilding, could have been erected by those who, in comparison, appeared so insignificant. This Church has indeed a spirit within it, which is possessed by none other that we have ever entered. It is sufficient to preserve a faith in existence centuries after its life has gone.

The very temperature of the building is remarkable, being always uniform; mild and pleasant in winter, and cool in summer, when the heat of the sun is so intense above as almost to melt the lead. Professor Playfair accounts for it on the supposition, that the immense edifice absorbs so much heat during the summer, that it never wholly discharges it throughout the winter. However this may be, the atmosphere is always delightful-no damp air is perceivednothing but the slight perfume of the incense which is wafted from some side chapel where service is performing.

We passed around, and wandered from aisle to aisle, and from Chapel to Chapel, finding on all sides the same lavish magnificence. Every thing is in perfect keeping, the statues themselves being gigantic to harmonize with the building. Around us were the gorgeous monuments of the Popes, on which the ablest sculptors of the last three centuries had exhausted their skill-the masterpiece of Canova, erected to the memory of Clement XIII, with its Genius of Death, holding the inverted torch, and the sleeping lion below, the finest efforts of the modern chisel-and the marble group of the Virgin supporting "the dead Christ," a most touching work, which first established the fame of Michael Angelo. There was one, before which we particularly paused, because it bore, sculptured on the enduring marble, so plain a record of the high-handed oppression of the Papal power during the Middle Ages. It was the tomb of the celebrated Countess Matilda, who, in the days of Hildebrand, was the powerful ally of the Church, bequeathing to it also at her death, her val

uable patrimony in Tuscany, a portion of which is still held by the Papal see. Living in the very crisis of that conflict between the Feudal system and the power of the Church, so well did she aid the latter in gaining its triumph, that she deserved her burial place in its noblest temple. Five centuries after her death, Urban VIII removed her body from the Benedictine Monastery, near Mantua, and deposited it beneath this stately monument.. Does that statue, which Bernini has placed above her tomb, represent her as she was in her living day? We may believe so, for it embodies our own idea of that stern woman, as she sits there frowning in the marble, holding in her hands the keys and the Papal tiara. But it is on the sides of the sarcophagus below, that we see portrayed the scene she aided to bring about, and which she considered her chief glory.

When Henry, the young Emperor of Germany, had been excommunicated by Gregory VII, to obtain an interview with his rival and rescue himself from the anathema, he was obliged to cross the Alps in the depth of winter, over fields and precipices of ice which could only be traversed on foot. His object was, to throw himself at the Pontiff's feet and obtain absolution; but he found this spiritual Autocrat in Matilda's strong mountain fortress of Canossa in the Apennines, and for a time every avenue was barred against him. At length Gregory consented that the Emperor should enter the fortress in the garb of a penitent, to receive his sentence. Then was witnessed, what we may well consider the most extraordinary scene in the annals of the Papacy. It was on a morning in January, 1077, when the cold was intense, the mountain streams frozen, and the ground white with snow, that earth's greatest monarch of that day was seen, barefooted and clothed only in a thin linen penitential garment, toiling mournfully and alone up to the rocky castle of Canossa. He passed two gateways, but found the third closed against him. It was at sunrise that he appeared in this hu