could lift; and yet, a little while afterwards, U----, J-----, and I
stood all together in that ball, which could have contained a dozen more
along with us. The esplanade of the roof is, of course, very extensive;
and along the front of it are ranged the statues which we see from below,
and which, on nearer examination, prove to be roughly hewn giants. There
is a small house on the roof, where, probably, the custodes of this part
of the edifice reside; and there is a fountain gushing abundantly into a
stone trough, that looked like an old sarcophagus. It is strange where
the water comes from at such a height. The children tasted it, and
pronounced it very warm and disagreeable. After taking in the prospect
on all sides we rang a bell, which summoned a man, who directed us
towards a door in the side of the dome, where a custode was waiting to
admit us. Hitherto the ascent had been easy, along a slope without
stairs, up which, I believe, people sometimes ride on donkeys. The rest
of the way we mounted steep and narrow staircases, winding round within
the wall, or between the two walls of the dome, and growing narrower and
steeper, till, finally, there is but a perpendicular iron ladder, by
means of which to climb into the copper ball. Except through small
windows and peep-holes, there is no external prospect of a higher point
than the roof of the church. Just beneath the ball there is a circular
room capable of containing a large company, and a door which ought to
give access to a gallery on the outside; but the custode informed us that
this door is never opened. As I have said, U----, J-----, and I
clambered into the copper ball, which we found as hot as an oven; and,
after putting our hands on its top, and on the summit of St. Peter's,
were glad to clamber down again. I have made some mistake, after all, in
my narration. There certainly is a circular balcony at the top of the
dome, for I remember walking round it, and looking, not only across the
country, but downwards along the ribs of the dome; to which are attached
the iron contrivances for illuminating it on Easter Sunday. . . . .