“It is built in the dirtiest part of modern Rome,” says the author of Rome in the Nineteenth Century; “and the unfortunate spectator, who comes with a mind filled with enthusiasm, to gaze upon this monument of the taste and magnificence of antiquity, finds himself surrounded by all that is most revolting to the senses, distracted by incessant uproar, pestered by the crowd of clamorous beggars, and stuck fast in the congregated filth of every description that covers the slippery pavement; so that the time he forces himself to spend in admiring its noble portico, generally proves a penance from which he is glad to be liberated, instead of an enjoyment he wishes to protract. We escaped none of these nuisances, except the mud, by sitting in an open carriage to survey it. The smells of the beggars were equally annoying. You may perhaps form some idea of the situation of the Pantheon at Rome, by imagining what Westminster Abbey would be in Covent Garden Market.” This does not appear, however, to have damped the enthusiasm of Dupaty:—“I first directed my steps,” says he, “towards the Pantheon, dedicated by Agrippa to all the gods, and since, I know not by what pope, to all the saints[179]. This consecration has preserved the Pantheon from the general pillage and destruction which the other temples have undergone. It has been despoiled of every thing that made it rich; but they have left all that made it great. It has lost its marbles, its porphyry, its alabaster, but it has preserved its dome, its peristyle, and its columns. How magnificent is this peristyle! The eyes are just attracted by eight Corinthian columns, on which rests the pediment of this immortal monument. These columns are beautiful from the harmony of the most perfect workmanship, and the lapse of twenty centuries, which adds to their grandeur, and the awe they inspire. The eye can never tire with mounting with them in the air, and following their descent. They present I know not what appearance of animated life, that creates a pleasing illusion, an elegant shape, a noble stature, and a majestic head, round which the acanthus, with leaves at once so flexible and so superb, forms a crown; which, like that of kings, serves the double purpose of decorating the august head to which it gives a splendour, and disguising the immense weight that loads it. How richly does architecture, which creates such monuments, merit a place among the fine arts!”