pile is a hundred feet high, and rears itself in front of you on going in. The guard of honour and the Swiss are formed about it in a square, at each angle of which is stationed a cardinal in deep mourning with his attendants, holding vast flaming torches; then begins the chant with the monotonous responses. This is the only occasion on which they sing in the centre of the church, and the effect is very wonderful.
It is very striking to stand among the choir, as I am allowed to do, and watch them all grouped round the colossal book they sing from. An enormous taper throws its light upon the page, and it is most interesting to see how they all press round in their vestments to read the music, Baini, with his monastic face, beating time with his hand, and at intervals coming in with his deep sonorous voice, and to observe all the play of the strongly-marked Italian faces. One passes from one spectacle to another in Rome, and so it is in St. Peter’s; one takes a few steps and the whole scene is changed. I went to the farther end, and there it was a wonderful picture to look down between the twisted pillars of the high altar, which one knows to be equal in height to the Schloss at Berlin, to see across the floor of the dome the catafalque with its crowded lights, strangely diminished by the distance, and the throng of people about it like so many dwarfs.
If the music begins when one is at this distance, the notes only reach one after a long interval, then re-echo and obliterate each other so that one catches the strangest indefinable harmonies. Changing position again, so as to stand in face of the catafalque, one
