The weather is lovely; we were obliged to close our Venetian blinds against the heat at eight this morning, and afterwards we drove to the gardens of the Villa Borghese, where we wandered about in search of coolness and shade.

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26.—­I must now descend to the common occurrences of our every-day life.

For the last week we have generally spent the whole or part of the morning, in some of the galleries of art; and the afternoon in the gardens of the neighbouring villas.  Those of the Villa Medici have their vicinity to our inn, and their fine air to recommend them.  From the Villa Lanti, and the Monte Mario, we have a splendid view of the whole city and Campagna of Rome.  The Pope’s gardens on the Monte Cavallo, are pleasant, accessible, and very private:  the gardens of the Villa Pamfili, are enchanting; but our usual haunt is the garden of the Villa Borghese.  In this delightful spot we find shade and privacy, or sunshine and society, as we may feel inclined.  To-day it was intensely hot; but we found the cool sequestered walks and alleys of cypress and ilex, perfectly delicious.  I spread my shawl upon a green bank carpeted with violets, and lounged in most luxurious indolence.  I had a book with me, but felt no inclination to read.  The soft air, the trickling and murmuring of innumerable fountains, the urns, the temples, the statues—­the localities of the scene—­all dispose the mind to a kind of vague but delightful reverie to which we “find no end, in wandering mazes lost.”

In these gardens we frequently meet the Princess Pauline:  sometimes alone, but oftener surrounded by a cortege of beaux.  She is no longer the “Venere Vincitrice” of Canova; but her face, though faded, is pretty and intelligent; and she still preserves the “andar celeste,” and all the distinguished elegance of her petite and graceful figure.  Of the stories told of her, I suppose one half may be true—­and that half is quite enough.  She is rather more famous for her gallantries, than for her bon-gout in the choice of her favourites; but it is justice to Pauline to add, that her native benevolence of heart seems to have survived all her frailties; and every one who speaks of her here, even those who must condemn her, mention her in a tone of kindness, and even of respect.  She is still in deep mourning for the Emperor.

The Villa Pamfili is about two miles from Rome on the other side of the Monte Gianicolo.  The gardens are laid out in the artificial style of Italian gardening, a style which in England would horrify me as in the vilest and most old-fashioned taste—­stiff, cold, unnatural, and altogether detestable.  Through what inconsistency or perversity of taste is it then, that I am enchanted with the fantastic elegance, and the picturesque gaiety of the Pamfili gardens; where sportive art revels and runs wild amid the luxuriance of nature?  Or is it, as I would rather believe,