than I ever wore before, and my thickest great-coat over all. In the
middle of the day I generally venture out for an hour or two, but have
only once been warm enough even in the sunshine, and out of the sun never
at any time. I understand now the force of that story of Diogenes when
he asked the Conqueror, as the only favor he could do him, to stand out
of his sunshine, there being such a difference in these Southern climes
of Europe between sun and shade. If my wits had not been too much
congealed, and my fingers too numb, I should like to have kept a minute
journal of my feelings and impressions during the past fortnight. It
would have shown modern Rome in an aspect in which it has never yet been
depicted. But I have now grown somewhat acclimated, and the first
freshness of my discomfort has worn off, so that I shall never be able to
express how I dislike the place, and how wretched I have been in it; and
soon, I suppose, warmer weather will come, and perhaps reconcile
me to Rome against my will. Cold, narrow lanes, between tall, ugly,
mean-looking whitewashed houses, sour bread, pavements most uncomfortable
to the feet, enormous prices for poor living; beggars, pickpockets,
ancient temples and broken monuments, and clothes hanging to dry about
them; French soldiers, monks, and priests of every degree; a shabby
population, smoking bad cigars,--these would have been some of the points
of my description. Of course there are better and truer things to be
said. . . . .

It would be idle for me to attempt any sketches of these famous sites and
edifices,--St. Peter's, for example,--which have been described by a
thousand people, though none of them have ever given me an idea of what
sort of place Rome is. . . . .

The Coliseum was very much what I had preconceived it, though I was not
prepared to find it turned into a sort of Christian church, with a pulpit