which once stood in the Portico of the Pantheon, and contained the ashes of Agrippa, is now in the Corsini chapel here, and encloses the remains of some Pope Clement.  The bronze equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius, which stands on the Capitol, was dug from the cloisters of the Lateran.  The statue of Constantine in the portico was found in the baths of Constantine:  it is in a style of sculpture worthy the architecture of the cloisters.—­Constantine was the first Christian emperor, a glory which has served to cover a multitude of sins; it is indeed impossible to forget that he was the chosen instrument of a great and blessed revolution; but in other respects it is as impossible to look back to the period of Constantine without horror—­an era when bloodshed and barbarism, and the general depravity of morals and taste seemed to have reached their climax.

On leaving the Lateran, we walked to the Scala Santa, said to be the very flights of steps which led to the judgment hall at Jerusalem, and transported hither by the Emperor Constantine; but while the other relics which his pious benevolence bestowed on the city of Rome have apparently lost some of their efficacy, the Scala Santa is still regarded with the most devout veneration.  At the moment of our approach, an elegant barouche drove up to the portico, from which two well-dressed women alighted, and pulling out their rosaries, began to crawl up the steps on their hands and knees, repeating a Paternoster and an Ave Maria on every step.  A poor diseased beggar had just gone up before them, and was a few steps in advance.  This exercise, as we are assured, purchases a thousand years of indulgence.  The morning was concluded by a walk on the Mont Pincio.

I did not know on that first morning after our arrival, when I ran up the Scalla della Trinita to the top of the Pincian hill, and looked around me with such transport, that I stood by mere chance on that very spot from which Claude used to study his sun sets, and his beautiful effects of evening.  His house was close to me on the left, and those of Nicolo Poussin and Salvator Rosa a little beyond.  Since they have been pointed out to me, I never pass from the Monte Pincio along the Via Felice without looking up at them with interest:  such power has genius, “to hallow in the core of human hearts even the ruin of a wall.”

* * * * *

Jan. 6.—­Sunday, at the English chapel, which was crowded to excess, and where it was at once cold and suffocating.  We had a plain but excellent sermon, and the officiating clergyman, Mr. W., exhorted the congregation to conduct themselves with more decorum at St. Peter’s, and to remember what was due to the temple of that God who was equally the God of all Christians.  We afterwards went to St. Peter’s; where the anthem was performed at vespers as usual, and the tenor of the Argentino sung.  The music was indeed heavenly—­but I did not enjoy