remarked that the Gothic churches of England and Germany have a far more gloomy character than this. Northern Catholicism has in it something mystic; ours speaks to the imagination by external objects. Michael Angelo, on beholding this dome from the Pantheon, exclaimed, 'I have built it in the air!'--indeed, St. Peter's is as a temple based upon a church; its interior weds the ancient and modern faiths in the mind; I frequently wander hither to regain the composure my spirit sometimes loses. The sight of such a building is like a ceaseless, changeless melody, here awaiting to console all who seek it; and, among our national claims to glory, let me rank the courage, patience, and disinterestedness of the chiefs of our church, who have, for so many years, devoted such treasures to the completion of an edifice which its founders could not expect to enjoy.[4] It is rendering a service to the moral public, bestowing on a nation a monument emblematic of such noble and generous desires."--"Yes," replied Oswald, "here art is grand, and genius inventive; but how is the real dignity of man sustained? How weak are the generality of Italian governments, yet how do they enslave."--"Other nations," interrupted Corinne, "have borne the yoke, like ourselves, and without like power to conceive a better fate, 'Servi siam si, ma servi ognor frementi.' 'We are slaves, indeed, but forever chafing beneath our bonds,' said Alfieri, the boldest of our modern writers. With such soul for the fine arts, may not our character one day equal our genius? But look at these statues on the tombs, these mosaics--laborious and faithful copies from the _chefs-d'œuvres_ of our great masters. I never examine St. Peter's in detail, because I am grieved to find that its multiplied adornments somewhat impair the beauty of the whole. Yet well may the best works of human hands seem superfluous here. This is a world of itself; a refuge from both heat and cold; it hath a season of its own, perennial spring, which the atmosphere without can never affect. A subterranean church is built beneath; the popes, and many foreign princes, are buried there--Christine, who abdicated her realm; the Stuarts, whose dynasty was overthrown. Rome, so long an asylum for the exile, is she not herself dethroned? Her aspect consoles sovereigns despoiled like her. Yes, cities fall, whole empires disappear, and man becomes unworthy of his name. Stand here, Nevil! near the altar, beneath the centre of the dome, you perceive, through these iron gratings, the church of the dead, which lies beneath our feet, and, on raising your eyes, they can scarcely pierce to the summit of this arch; do you not feel as if a huge abyss was opening over your head? Everything which extends beyond a certain proportion must cause that limited creature, man, uncontrollable dismay. What we know is as inexplicable as the unknown; we have so reconciled ourselves to habitual darkness, that any new mystery alarms and confounds us.