knees before a little box of bones which stood in one corner,
then before a painting of the Saviour which hung in the other; muttered
a few words of prayer; and, descending the lateral stairs, commenced
over again the same process. In no time they had laid up at least a
hundred years' indulgence a-piece. The Frenchman and his lady went
through the operation with a grave face; but the peasants quite lost the
mastery over theirs, and the building rung with peals of laughter at
the ridiculous attitudes into which they were compelled to throw
themselves. Even in the little chapel above, bursts of smothered
merriment interrupted their prayers. I looked at the little man in the
box, to see how he was taking it; but he was true to his own remark,
"What is that to me?" Indeed, this behaviour by no means detracted from
the merit of the deed, or shortened by a single day the term of
indulgence, in the estimation of the Italians. _Their_ understanding of
devotion and _ours_ are totally different. With us devotion is a mental
act; with them it is a mechanical act, strictly so. The mind may be
absent, asleep, dead; it is devotion nevertheless. These peasants had
undertaken to climb Pilate's staircase on their knees; not to give
devout or reverent feelings into the bargain: they had done all they
engaged to do, and were entitled to claim their hire. The staircase, as
my readers may remember, has a strange connection with the Reformation.
One day, as Luther was dragging his body up these steps, he thought he
heard a voice from heaven crying to him, _The just shall live by faith._
Amazed, he sprang to his feet. New light entered into him. Luther and
the Reformation were advanced a stage.

From the Scala Santa in the Lateran I went to see the Santissimo Bambino
in the church of Ara Caeli, on the Capitol. This church is squatted on
the spot where stood the temple of Jupiter Ferretrius of old. It is one
of the largest churches in Rome, and is unquestionably the ugliest. A
magnificent staircase of an hundred and twenty-four steps of Parian
marble leads up to it; but the church itself is as untasteful as can
well be imagined. It presents its gable to the spectator, which is
simply a vast unadorned expanse of brick, the breadth greatly exceeding
the height, and terminating a-top in a sort of coping, that looks like a
low, broad chimney, or rather a dozen chimneys in one. The edifice
always reminded me of a short, stout Quaker, with a brim of