he immense suite of splendid libraries, was thrown open to
the public. All the foreigners in Rome having crowded to St. Peter's,
or the chapels, to view the ceremonies going on, I was the only
stranger amidst an assemblage of the common people and peasantry, who
had come to lounge there till the lighting up of the Cross. I walked
on and on, hour after hour, lost in amazement, and wondering where and
when this glorious labyrinth was to end; successive galleries fitted
up with the gay splendour of an Oriental Haram, in which the books and
manuscripts are all arranged and numbered in cases; the beautiful
perspective of hall beyond hall vanishing away into immeasurable
distance; the refulgent light shed overall; and add to this, the
extraordinary visages and costumes of the people, who with their
families wandered along in groups or singly, all behaving with the
utmost decorum, and making emphatic exclamations on the beauties
around them. "_Ah! che bella cosa! Cosa rara! O bella assai!_" all
furnished me with such ample matter for amusement, and observation,
and admiration, that I was insensible to fatigue, and knew not that in
five hours I had scarcely completed the circuit of the Museum.

One room (the Camera del Papiri) struck me particularly: it is a small
octagon, the ceiling and ornaments painted by Raffaelle Mengs with
exquisite taste. The group on the ceiling represents the Muse of
History writing, while her book reposes on the wings of Time, and a
Genius supplies her with materials: the pannels of this room are
formed of old manuscripts, pasted up against the walls and glazed.
The effect of the whole is as singular as beautiful.

A new gallery of marbles has lately been opened by the Pope, called
from its form the _Sala della Croce_: in splendid, classical, and
tasteful decoration, it equals any of the others, but is not, perhaps,
so remarkable for the intrinsic value of its contents.

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