I never more deeply felt my own ignorance and deficiencies than I did to-day.  I saw so many things I did not understand, so much which I wished to have explained to me, I longed so inexpressibly for someone to talk to, to exclaim to, to help me to wonder, to admire, to be extasiee! but I was alone:  and I know not how it is, or why, but when I am alone, not only my powers of enjoyment seem to fail me in a degree, but even my mental faculties; and the multitude of my own ideas and sensations confuse, oppress, and irritate me.

I walked through the whole gyro of the Museum, examining the busts and pictures particularly, with the help of Este’s admirable catalogue raisonnee, and at half-past five I reached the Sistine just in time to hear the second Miserere:  neither the music nor the effort were equal to the first evening.  The music, though inferior to Allegri’s, was truly beautiful and sublime; but the scenic pageantry did not strike so much on repetition:  the chapel was insufferably crowded, I was sick and stupid from heat and fatigue, and to crown all, just in the midst of one of the most overpowering strains, the cry of condemned souls pleading for mercy, which made my heart pause, and my flesh creep—­a lady behind me whispered loudly, “Do look what lovely broderie Mrs. L** has on her white satin spencer!”

After the Miserere, we adjourned to St. Peter’s, to see the illumination of the Girandola.  I confess the first glance disappointed me; for the cross, though more than thirty feet in height, looks trivial and diminutive, compared with the immensity of the dome in which it is suspended; but just as I was beginning to admire the sublime effect of the whole scene, I was obliged to leave the church, being unable to stand the fatigue any longer.

* * * * *

To-day we have remained quietly at home, recruiting after the exertions of yesterday.  After dinner, Colonel ——­ and Mr. W** began to discuss the politics of Italy, and from abusing the governments they fell upon the people; and being of very opposite principles and parties, they soon began an argument which ended in a warm dispute, and sent me to take refuge in my own room.  How I detest politics and discord!  How I hate the discussion of politics in Italy! and, above all, the discussion of Italian politics, which offer no point upon which the mind can dwell with pleasure.  I have not wandered to Italy—­“this land of sun-lit skies and fountains clear,” as Barry Cornwall calls it, only to scrape together materials for a quarto tour, or to sweep up the leavings of the “fearless” Lady Morgan; or to dwell upon the heart-sickening realities which meet me at every turn; evils of which I neither understand the cause nor the cure.  And yet say not to Italy

    “Caduta e la tua gloria—­e tu nol’ vedi!”