When we reached the door, and stood fairly within the church, it was impossible to comprehend that it was a very large building.  I had to cipher a comprehension of it.  I had to ransack my memory for some more similes.  St. Peter’s is bulky.  Its height and size would represent two of the Washington capitol set one on top of the other—­if the capitol were wider; or two blocks or two blocks and a half of ordinary buildings set one on top of the other.  St. Peter’s was that large, but it could and would not look so.  The trouble was that every thing in it and about it was on such a scale of uniform vastness that there were no contrasts to judge by—­none but the people, and I had not noticed them.  They were insects.  The statues of children holding vases of holy water were immense, according to the tables of figures, but so was every thing else around them.  The mosaic pictures in the dome were huge, and were made of thousands and thousands of cubes of glass as large as the end of my little finger, but those pictures looked smooth, and gaudy of color, and in good proportion to the dome.  Evidently they would not answer to measure by.  Away down toward the far end of the church (I thought it was really clear at the far end, but discovered afterward that it was in the centre, under the dome,) stood the thing they call the baldacchino—­a great bronze pyramidal frame-work like that which upholds a mosquito bar.  It only looked like a considerably magnified bedstead—­nothing more.  Yet I knew it was a good deal more than half as high as Niagara Falls.  It was overshadowed by a dome so mighty that its own height was snubbed.  The four great square piers or pillars that stand equidistant from each other in the church, and support the roof, I could not work up to their real dimensions by any method of comparison.  I knew that the faces of each were about the width of a very large dwelling-house front, (fifty or sixty feet,) and that they were twice as high as an ordinary three-story dwelling, but still they looked small.  I tried all the different ways I could think of to compel myself to understand how large St. Peter’s was, but with small success.  The mosaic portrait of an Apostle who was writing with a pen six feet long seemed only an ordinary Apostle.

But the people attracted my attention after a while.  To stand in the door of St. Peter’s and look at men down toward its further extremity, two blocks away, has a diminishing effect on them; surrounded by the prodigious pictures and statues, and lost in the vast spaces, they look very much smaller than they would if they stood two blocks away in the open air.  I “averaged” a man as he passed me and watched him as he drifted far down by the baldacchino and beyond—­watched him dwindle to an insignificant school-boy, and then, in the midst of the silent throng of human pigmies gliding about him, I lost him.  The church had lately been decorated, on the occasion of a great ceremony in honor of St. Peter, and men