as well as poets, which seem to shew, that in some instances at least, those gifted men had been led to taste of purer streams, and higher sources of enjoyment than genius could open, or the sense of beauty yield them.

I shall transcribe one whose author lived, it is true, at a comparatively later date, but whose genius and fame has rivalled even the highest name among them all,-Michael Angelo Buonarotti.

"Now my frail bark through life's tempestuous flood
Is steered, and full in view that port is seen,
Where all must answer what their course has been,
And every work be tried, if bad or good.
Now do those lofty dreams, my fancy's brood,
Which made of Art an idol and a queen,

Melt into air, and now I feel-how keen!—
That what I needed most I most withstood.
Ye fabled joys, ye tales of empty love,
What are ye now, if two-fold death be nigh?
The first is certain, and the last I dread.

Ah! what does Sculpture-what does Painting prove—
When we have seen the Cross, and fixed our eye
On Him whose arms of love were there outspread!"

ST. PETER'S.

ELL might Gibbon pronounce St. Peter's "the most glorious temple that ever was raised for the purpose of religious worship." At each successive visit it has grown upon us in vast

ness and beauty, until we have felt as though the idea of it were becoming too vast for the mind to master by rules and measurements applicable to other edifices. The only way to comprehend

its real magnitude is to judge it by space and distance, as one does the size of a plain or of a moun

tain. In ordinary buildings, the various details are usually estimated by some familiar measurement. For example, one has some idea of the height and width of the door of entrance, and may take for granted that the breadth, length, and height of its architectural parts will be in proportion; and these we comprehend accordingly with tolerable correctness. It is true that here also these proportions are carried out with the most beautiful and faultless exactness. But then, the first step the mind has to take-the actual proportions of the entrance itself, or of whatever object the eye of the measurer,

starts from—are so stupendous, so far beyond anything one has previously seen in architecture, that the eye is constantly deceived. In the well-known instance of the white marble cherubs supporting the basins of "Holy Water" on each side near the entrance, I never doubted, at the first glance, that they were of the ordinary size of children, which they represent; yet on near inspection we found them at least seven feet high, and with their chubby limbs, representing infancy, more massive than three ordinary men! And so through all its wondrous details. There are figures of the Evangelists in mosaic, round the lowest compartment of the dome, which, from below, look very little larger than life, and yet the exact length of the pen which St. Luke holds in his hand, is five and a half feet. Again, there is the magnificent baldacchino or canopy, of bronze gilt, of rich and exquisite workmanship, directly under the dome, over the high altar and tomb of St. Peter. As you enter the building at the further end, this structure appears the size of an ordinary pulpit; it would never occur to any one as being more, and yet the cross which surmounts this baldacchino is ninety-two feet above the level of the pavement on which you stand-as high as many of our common church spires! This deception of the eye readily accounts for the fact that the edifice itself does not, on many minds, till after repeated visits at least, produce that overwhelming feeling of greatness which one might expect. There is one peculiarity, however, which at once strikes the stranger in St. Peter's, and which assists greatly, I think, in realizing the vastness of the space-and that is the purity and freeness of the atmosphere. Unlike ordinary churches or halls of the largest dimensions, there is no unpleasant feeling of dampness or of confined air, nor any peculiar smell of the materials of which it is composed. All is too distant and open for this. The interior of St. Peter's

has a climate, so to speak, of its own: it is never chilly, and never close or heated. From the very immensity of its space there is a soothing stillness-a calm in its atmosphere, which no sudden draughts or currents can disturb. No matter what may be the temperature without, winter or summer, within this world of beauty, and beneath that firmament of glowing colours and golden splendour, the seasons seem to know no change, the subdued and softened atmosphere has ever the same grateful soothing to the senses.

We found on experience, almost more than we had anticipated, that an ascent to the summit of St. Peter's is the only way by which any adequate idea can be formed of its true magnitude. This ascent presents, indeed, one of the most extraordinary spectacles.

In the first place, you do not, as in ordinary buildings, mount flights of common steps, apparently interminable, not so much from actual number as from their laborious steepness, and a dark and stifling staircase; but you walk easily and agreeably upwards by a broad paved road, constructed a cordoni, well lighted, more than wide enough for the passage of a laden waggon, and of so gentle an ascent that horses constantly go up and down with their burdens. Arrived upon the principal roof, the scene presents somewhat the appearance of a little village of workmen, who, with their dwelling-houses, implements, heaps of materials, a fountain of water constantly flowing, and other symptoms of complete domestication, and permanent residence in this higher sphere, seem to have nothing to do with the world below. As we traversed the immense fields of lead, we recalled, and quite understood what the American author Cooper says, in his account of the ascent, that he was "seized with the desire of having a horse to gallop about upon it!" From this plain the three domes arise. The two

side ones, which are not seen from immediately below, rise above it to the height of one hundred and thirty-six feet. Each of these would itself be a very fine dome proportioned to a large church; but they are insignificant beside that which rises in the centre like a little mountain from the plain. Its architecture, ornament, and proportions, which seem to me absolutely perfect, can only be judged of here; as, indeed, the size of the dome can only be for besides that it is double, and that the interior only of the inner one (which the outer encases) is that which is seen from the pavement below inside the Church, the extent to which the roof stretches on every side, prevents the base of the outer dome from being seen at all, except from a considerable distance.

The broad road of ascent continues no further than this. We had therefore to traverse the leaden plain to reach the architectural mountain we had still to climb. A long series of short flights of steps, and narrow passages of inclined plane, leads to the summit of the dome. About half way up the cicerone ushered us by a doorway upon a railed gallery, which opens upon, and runs round the interior. It is a moment and a position this, I think, to try the strongest nerves, and affect the dullest imagination. Not that there is the slightest danger, for the gallery is broad, and a high substantial railing prevents the possibility of a fall; but the stupendous spectacle itself, bursting suddenly and unexpectedly upon one, must inevitably produce a powerful impression of some kind. With me it was one of deep awe and solemnity, a feeling of overwhelming magnitude, as though everything around, on which the eye rested for a moment, were preternaturally expanding,-growing larger and larger even while one gazed, until the sensation became almost one of pain and bewilderment! We looked across a vast dim gulf, round which the massive balustrade ran on