were engaged, now, in removing the flowers and gilt paper from the walls and pillars.  As no ladders could reach the great heights, the men swung themselves down from balustrades and the capitals of pilasters by ropes, to do this work.  The upper gallery which encircles the inner sweep of the dome is two hundred and forty feet above the floor of the church—­very few steeples in America could reach up to it.  Visitors always go up there to look down into the church because one gets the best idea of some of the heights and distances from that point.  While we stood on the floor one of the workmen swung loose from that gallery at the end of a long rope.  I had not supposed, before, that a man could look so much like a spider.  He was insignificant in size, and his rope seemed only a thread.  Seeing that he took up so little space, I could believe the story, then, that ten thousand troops went to St. Peter’s, once, to hear mass, and their commanding officer came afterward, and not finding them, supposed they had not yet arrived.  But they were in the church, nevertheless—­they were in one of the transepts.  Nearly fifty thousand persons assembled in St. Peter’s to hear the publishing of the dogma of the Immaculate Conception.  It is estimated that the floor of the church affords standing room for—­for a large number of people; I have forgotten the exact figures.  But it is no matter—­it is near enough.

They have twelve small pillars, in St. Peter’s, which came from Solomon’s Temple.  They have, also—­which was far more interesting to me—­a piece of the true cross, and some nails, and a part of the crown of thorns.

Of course we ascended to the summit of the dome, and of course we also went up into the gilt copper ball which is above it.—­There was room there for a dozen persons, with a little crowding, and it was as close and hot as an oven.  Some of those people who are so fond of writing their names in prominent places had been there before us—­a million or two, I should think.  From the dome of St. Peter’s one can see every notable object in Rome, from the Castle of St. Angelo to the Coliseum.  He can discern the seven hills upon which Rome is built.  He can see the Tiber, and the locality of the bridge which Horatius kept “in the brave days of old” when Lars Porsena attempted to cross it with his invading host.  He can see the spot where the Horatii and the Curatii fought their famous battle.  He can see the broad green Campagna, stretching away toward the mountains, with its scattered arches and broken aqueducts of the olden time, so picturesque in their gray ruin, and so daintily festooned with vines.  He can see the Alban Mountains, the Appenines, the Sabine Hills, and the blue Mediterranean.  He can see a panorama that is varied, extensive, beautiful to the eye, and more illustrious in history than any other in Europe.—­About his feet is spread the remnant of a city that once had a population of four million souls; and among its massed edifices