Finding our way back again, we took a fresh start, happily in the right direction, and after walking some time, came out on the Tiber, at the Bridge of St. Angelo.  The river rolled below in his muddy glory, and in front, on the opposite bank, stood “the pile which Hadrian retired on high”—­now, the Castle of St. Angelo.  Knowing that St. Peter’s was to he seen from this bridge, I looked about in search of it.  There was only one dome in sight, large and of beautiful proportions.  I said at once, “surely that cannot be St. Peter’s!” On looking again, however, I saw the top of a massive range of building near it, which corresponded so nearly with the pictures of the Vatican, that I was unwillingly forced to believe the mighty dome was really before me.  I recognized it as one of those we saw from the Capitol, but it appeared so much smaller when viewed from a greater distance, that I was quite deceived.  On considering we were still three-fourths of a mile from it, and that we could see its minutest parts distinctly, the illusion was explained.

Going directly down the Borgo Vecchio, towards it, it seemed a long time before we arrived at the square of St. Peter’s; when at length we stood in front with the majestic colonnade sweeping around—­the fountains on each side sending up their showers of silvery spray—­the mighty obelisk of Egyptian granite piercing the sky—­and beyond, the great front and dome of the Cathedral, I confessed my unmingled admiration.  It recalled to my mind the grandeur of ancient Rome, and mighty as her edifices must have been, I doubt if there were many views more overpowering than this.  The facade of St. Peter’s seemed close to us, but it was a third of a mile distant, and the people ascending the steps dwindled to pigmies.

I passed the obelisk, went up the long ascent, crossed the portico, pushed aside the heavy leathern curtain at the entrance, and stood in the great nave.  I need not describe my feelings at the sight, but I will tell the dimensions, and you may then fancy what they were.  Before me was a marble plain six hundred feet long, and under the cross four hundred and seventeen feet wide!  One hundred and fifty feet above, sprang a glorious arch, dazzling with inlaid gold, and in the centre of the cross there were four hundred feet of air between me and the top of the dome!  The sunbeam, stealing through the lofty window at one end of the transept, made a bar of light on the blue air, hazy with incense, one-tenth of a mile long, before it fell on the mosaics and gilded shrines of the other extremity.  The grand cupola alone, including lantern and cross, is two hundred and eighty-five feet high, or sixty feet higher than the Bunker Hill Monument, and the four immense pillars on which it rests are each one hundred and thirty-seven feet in circumference!  It seems as if human art had outdone itself in producing this temple—­the grandest which the world ever erected for the worship of the Living God!  The awe felt in looking up at the giant arch of marble and gold, did not humble me; on the contrary, I felt exalted, ennobled—­beings in the form I wore planned the glorious edifice, and it seemed that in godlike power perseverance, they were indeed but “a little lower than the angels!” I felt that, if fallen, my race was still mighty and immortal.