for hundreds of years to hear themselves and their religion especially and particularly cursed; at this very day, in that curious country, a Jew is allowed to vote, hold office, yea, get up on a rostrum in the public street and express his opinion of the government if the government don’t suit him!  Ah, it is wonderful.  The common people there know a great deal; they even have the effrontery to complain if they are not properly governed, and to take hold and help conduct the government themselves; if they had laws like ours, which give one dollar of every three a crop produces to the government for taxes, they would have that law altered:  instead of paying thirty-three dollars in taxes, out of every one hundred they receive, they complain if they have to pay seven.  They are curious people.  They do not know when they are well off.  Mendicant priests do not prowl among them with baskets begging for the church and eating up their substance.  One hardly ever sees a minister of the gospel going around there in his bare feet, with a basket, begging for subsistence.  In that country the preachers are not like our mendicant orders of friars—­they have two or three suits of clothing, and they wash sometimes.  In that land are mountains far higher than the Alban mountains; the vast Roman Campagna, a hundred miles long and full forty broad, is really small compared to the United States of America; the Tiber, that celebrated river of ours, which stretches its mighty course almost two hundred miles, and which a lad can scarcely throw a stone across at Rome, is not so long, nor yet so wide, as the American Mississippi—­nor yet the Ohio, nor even the Hudson.  In America the people are absolutely wiser and know much more than their grandfathers did.  They do not plow with a sharpened stick, nor yet with a three-cornered block of wood that merely scratches the top of the ground.  We do that because our fathers did, three thousand years ago, I suppose.  But those people have no holy reverence for their ancestors.  They plow with a plow that is a sharp, curved blade of iron, and it cuts into the earth full five inches.  And this is not all.  They cut their grain with a horrid machine that mows down whole fields in a day.  If I dared, I would say that sometimes they use a blasphemous plow that works by fire and vapor and tears up an acre of ground in a single hour—­but —­but—­I see by your looks that you do not believe the things I am telling you.  Alas, my character is ruined, and I am a branded speaker of untruths!”

Of course we have been to the monster Church of St. Peter, frequently.  I knew its dimensions.  I knew it was a prodigious structure.  I knew it was just about the length of the capitol at Washington—­say seven hundred and thirty feet.  I knew it was three hundred and sixty-four feet wide, and consequently wider than the capitol.  I knew that the cross on the top of the dome of the church was four hundred and thirty-eight feet above the ground, and therefore about a hundred or may be a hundred and twenty-five feet higher than the dome of the capitol.—­Thus I had one gauge.  I wished to come as near forming a correct idea of how it was going to look, as possible; I had a curiosity to see how much I would err.  I erred considerably.  St. Peter’s did not look nearly so large as the capitol, and certainly not a twentieth part as beautiful, from the outside.