called the 'Great' first on account of
his size, and afterwards on account of his conquests, which exceeded
those of Julius Caesar in extent; and this Charlemagne came to Rome, and
marched up into the Church of Constantine, and bowed his enormous height
for Leo the Third to set upon it the crown of the new empire, which was
ever afterwards called the Holy Roman Empire, until Napoleon wiped out
its name in Vienna, having girt on Charlemagne's sword, and founded an
empire of his own, which lasted a dozen years instead of a thousand.

So the ages slipped along till the church was in bad repair and in
danger of falling, when Nicholas the Fifth was Pope, in 1450. He called
Alberti and Rossellini, who made the first plan; but it was the great
Julius the Second who laid the first stone of the present basilica,
according to Bramante's plan, under the northeast pillar of the dome,
where the statue of Saint Veronica now stands. The plan was changed many
times, and it was not until 1626, on the thirteen hundredth anniversary
of Saint Sylvester's consecration, that Urban the Eighth consecrated
what we now call the Church of Saint Peter.

We who have known Saint Peter's since the old days cannot go in under
the portico without recalling vividly the splendid pageants we have seen
pass in and out by the same gate. Even before reaching it we glance up
from the vast square to the high balcony, remembering how from there
Pius the Ninth used to chant out the Pontifical benediction to the city
and the world, while in the silence below one could hear the breathing
of a hundred thousand human beings.

[Illustration: PANORAMA

From the Orti Farnesiani]

That is all in ghostland now, and will soon be beyond the reach of
memory. In the coachhouses behind the Vatican, the old state coaches are
mouldering; and the Pope, in his great sedia gestatoria, the bearers,
the fan-men, the princes, the cardinals, the guards and the people will
not in our time be again seen together under the Roman sky.
Old-fashioned persons sigh for the pageantry of those days when they go
up the steps into the church.

The heavy leathern curtain falls by its own weight, and the air is
suddenly changed. A hushed, half-rhythmic sound, as of a world breathing
in its sleep, makes the silence alive. The light is not dim or
ineffectual, but very soft and high, and it is as rich as floating gold
dust in the far distance, and in the apse, an eighth of a mile from the
door