We wished to go to the Ambrosian Library, and we did that also.  We saw a manuscript of Virgil, with annotations in the handwriting of Petrarch, the gentleman who loved another man’s Laura, and lavished upon her all through life a love which was a clear waste of the raw material.  It was sound sentiment, but bad judgment.  It brought both parties fame, and created a fountain of commiseration for them in sentimental breasts that is running yet.  But who says a word in behalf of poor Mr. Laura? (I do not know his other name.) Who glorifies him?  Who bedews him with tears?  Who writes poetry about him?  Nobody.  How do you suppose he liked the state of things that has given the world so much pleasure?  How did he enjoy having another man following his wife every where and making her name a familiar word in every garlic-exterminating mouth in Italy with his sonnets to her pre-empted eyebrows?  They got fame and sympathy—­he got neither.  This is a peculiarly felicitous instance of what is called poetical justice.  It is all very fine; but it does not chime with my notions of right.  It is too one-sided—­too ungenerous.

Let the world go on fretting about Laura and Petrarch if it will; but as for me, my tears and my lamentations shall be lavished upon the unsung defendant.

We saw also an autograph letter of Lucrezia Borgia, a lady for whom I have always entertained the highest respect, on account of her rare histrionic capabilities, her opulence in solid gold goblets made of gilded wood, her high distinction as an operatic screamer, and the facility with which she could order a sextuple funeral and get the corpses ready for it.  We saw one single coarse yellow hair from Lucrezia’s head, likewise.  It awoke emotions, but we still live.  In this same library we saw some drawings by Michael Angelo (these Italians call him Mickel Angelo,) and Leonardo da Vinci. (They spell it Vinci and pronounce it Vinchy; foreigners always spell better than they pronounce.) We reserve our opinion of these sketches.

In another building they showed us a fresco representing some lions and other beasts drawing chariots; and they seemed to project so far from the wall that we took them to be sculptures.  The artist had shrewdly heightened the delusion by painting dust on the creatures’ backs, as if it had fallen there naturally and properly.  Smart fellow—­if it be smart to deceive strangers.

Elsewhere we saw a huge Roman amphitheatre, with its stone seats still in good preservation.  Modernized, it is now the scene of more peaceful recreations than the exhibition of a party of wild beasts with Christians for dinner.  Part of the time, the Milanese use it for a race track, and at other seasons they flood it with water and have spirited yachting regattas there.  The guide told us these things, and he would hardly try so hazardous an experiment as the telling of a falsehood, when it is all he can do to speak the truth in English without getting the lock-jaw.