ich it has produced, and the wondrous pictures
which are to be found there; now I wish to see Italy, or rather Rome, the
great city, for I am told that in a certain room there is contained the
grand miracle of art."

"And what do you call it?"

"The Transfiguration, painted by one Rafael, and it is said to be the
greatest work of the greatest painter which the world has ever known. I
suppose it is because everybody says so, that I have such a strange
desire to see it. I have already made myself well acquainted with its
locality, and think that I could almost find my way to it blindfold. When
I have crossed the Tiber, which, as you are aware, runs through Rome, I
must presently turn to the right, up a rather shabby street, which
communicates with a large square, the farther end of which is entirely
occupied by the front of an immense church, with a dome, which ascends
almost to the clouds, and this church they call St. Peter's."

"Ay, ay," said I, "I have read about that in 'Keysler's Travels.'"

"Before the church, in the square, are two fountains, one on either side,
casting up water in showers; between them, in the midst, is an obelisk,
brought from Egypt, and covered with mysterious writing; on your right
rises an edifice, not beautiful nor grand, but huge and bulky, where
lives a strange kind of priest whom men call the Pope, a very horrible
old individual, who would fain keep Christ in leading strings, calls the
Virgin Mary the Queen of Heaven, and himself God's Lieutenant-General
upon earth."

"Ay, ay," said I, "I have read of him in 'Fox's Book of Martyrs.'"

"Well, I do not go straight forward up the flight of steps conducting
into the church, but I turn to the right, and, passing under the piazza,
find myself in a court of the huge bulky house; and then ascend various
staircases, and pass along various corridors and galleries, all of which
I could describe to you, though I have never seen them; at last a door is
unlocked, and we enter a room rather high, but not particularly large,
communicating with another room, into which, however, I do not go, though
there are noble things in that second room--immortal things, by immortal
artists; amongst others, a grand piece of Corregio; I do not enter it,
for the grand picture of the world is not there; but I stand still
immediately on entering the first room, and I look straight before me,
neither to the right nor left, though there are noble things both on the