racter of the decoration and detail prevented the impression of
greatness; it was only after many times traversing that illimitable
pavement, and after frequent comparisons with ordinary human
measurements of the aerial heights of those arches and that dome, that
one conies to understand, by a sort of logical compulsion, how immense
it all is. It is a miniature cabinet magically made titanic; but the
magic which could transform inches into roods could not correspondingly
enlarge the innate character of the ornament; so that, instead of making
the miniature appear truly vast, it only makes us seem unnaturally
small. Still, after all criticisms, St. Peter's remains one of the most
delightful places in the world; its sweet sumptuousness and imperial
harmonies seem somehow to enter into us and make us harmonious, rich,
and sweet. The air that we inhale is just touched with the spirit of
incense, and mellowed as with the still memories of the summers of
five hundred years ago. The glistening surfaces of the colored marbles,
dimmed with faint, fragrant mists, and glorified with long slants of
brooding sunshine, soothe the eye like materialized music; and the soft
twinkle of the candles on the altars, seen in daylight, has a jewel-like
charm. As I look back upon it, however, and contrast it with the
cathedrals of England, the total influence upon the mind of St. Peter's
seems to me voluptuous rather than religious. It is a human palace of
art more than a shrine of the Almighty. A prince might make love to a
princess there without feeling guilty of profanation. St. Peter himself,
sitting there in his chair, with his highly polished toe advanced, is
a doll for us to play with. On one occasion I was in the church with
my father, and the great nave was thronged with people and lined with
soldiers, and down the midst went slowly a gorgeous procession, with
Pope Pio Nono borne aloft, swayingly, the triple crown upon his head. He
blessed the crowd, as he passed along, with outstretched hand. One can
never forget such a spectacle; but I was not nearly so much impressed in
a religious sense as when, forty years later, I stood in the portals of
a Mohammedan mosque in Central India and saw a thousand turbaned Moslems
prostrate themselves with their foreheads in the dust before a voice
which proclaimed the presence of the awful, unseen God.

My father enjoyed the church more after each visit to it. But it was the
confessionals and their si