I am very well satisfied with my visit to Rome. In the brief space of time I spent there I saw everything I wished except the pope himself, and I believe I had a glimpse of him; one statue of Michael Angelo’s, which I only learned about when it was too late; the Catacombs, where the early Christians used to conceal themselves, which are some miles off; the monument of Cecilia Metella, which is not handsome, but is immortalized by three or four singularly sweet stanzas in “Childe Harold;” and the Basilica of St. Paul, which is some distance out of the city, and was nearly destroyed by fire about ten years ago. This is a very small list compared with what I have seen, so I am quite content. I wish you could see Rome; there is so much that you would enjoy in the highest degree, and it is laying up a fund to be enjoyed afterwards as long as you live. It is now just sunset, and the air is remarkably balmy,--a mild sea-breeze, just enough to fan you. And let me tell you, however, as to Italian skies and sunsets that they are not a bit superior to our own. You may enjoy from your own parlor windows finer sunsets every clear day in summer than I have yet seen in Italy; though they certainly are very near ours. It is only to those who are accustomed to British clouds and fogs that they are remarkable. The peripatetic grinders of music upon hand-organs so common in all our towns are usually Italians, and I supposed that street music here was of much the same kind. This is a mistake. I have not seen such a thing in Italy or the south of France. You have universally the harp, commonly two players in concert, and very frequently a violin also for accompaniment, and the music is always creditable. At Avignon, the very land of troubadours, we were serenaded at dinner with a concert of harps, guitars, etc., but when they called for the coppers we found, shame to this degenerate age, that the troubadours were all women, and of the most unromantic appearance possible. The patois of all this part of France and of Piedmont, however, is the same as the language in which the trouvères are written, and one who understands the patois as now spoken can read the former without difficulty. The Italian language, is very soft and musical, far more pleasant to the ear than the deep nasal tones of the French. JOURNAL. FLORENCE, May 9, Thursday evening.