This was very trivial and tedious.  Rospo said, very truly, that the procession in Blue Beard was much better got up.  All these processions sound very fine in mere description, but in the reality there is always something to disappoint or disgust; something which leaves either a ludicrous or a painful impression on the mind.  The old priests and cardinals to-day looking like so many old beggar-women dressed up in the cast-off finery of a Christmas pantomime, the assistants smirking and whispering, the singers grinning at each other between every solemn strain of melody, and blowing their noses and spitting about like true Italians—­in short, the want of keeping in the tout ensemble shocked my taste and my imagination, and, I may add, better, more serious feelings.  It is well to see these things once, that we may not be cheated with fine words, but judge for ourselves.  I foresee, however, that I shall not be tempted to encounter any of the more crowded ceremonies.

I remarked that all the Italians wore black to-day.

We spent the afternoon at the Vatican.  We found St. Peter’s almost deserted; few people, no music, the pictures all muffled, and the altars hung with black drapery.  The scaffolding was preparing for the ceremonies of the week; and, on the whole, St. Peter’s appeared, for the first time, disagreeable and gloomy.

Monday, April 1.—­Non riconosco oggi la mia bella Italia!  Clouds, and cold, and rain, to which we have been so long unaccustomed, seem unnatural; and deform that peculiar character of sunny loveliness which belongs to this country:  and, a-propos to climate, I may as well observe now, that since the 1st of February, when we left Rome for Naples, up to this present 1st of April, not one day has been so rainy as to confine us to the house:  and on referring to my memoranda of the weather, I find that at Naples it rained one day for a few hours only, and for about two hours on the morning we left it:  since then, not a drop of rain has fallen:  all hot, cloudless, lovely weather.  We have been for the last three weeks in summer costume, and guard against the heat as we should in England during the dog-days.  To have an idea of an Italian summer, Mr. W** says we must fancy the present heat quadrupled.

The day, notwithstanding, has been unusually pleasant, the afternoon, though not brilliant, was clear and soft; and we drove in the open carriage first to the little church of Santa Maria della Pace, to see Raffaelle’s famous fresco, the Four Sybils.  It is in the finest preservation, and combines all his peculiar graces of design and expression.  The colouring has not suffered from time and damp like that of the frescos in the Vatican, but it is at once brilliant and delicate.  Nothing can exceed the exquisite grace of the Sibilla Persica, nor the beautiful drapery and inspired look of the Cumana.  Fortunately, I had never seen any copy or engraving of this master piece:  its beauty was to me enhanced by surprise and all the charm of novelty:  and my gratification was complete.