During these two mortal hours you are pushed forward constantly by energetic ladies bent on being placed, and pushed back by the Swedish guards, who defend the entrance.

The conversation you hear around you, and perforce engage in, is equally unedifying, both religiously and intellectually, a sort of _rechauffe_ of Murray's handbook, flavoured with discussions on last Sunday's sermon.

When you are reduced to such a frame of mind and body as is the natural result of time so employed, the doors of the chapel are opened, and you have literally to fight your way in amidst a crowd of ladies hustling, screaming, and fainting.

If you are lucky, you get standing room in a sort of open pen, whence, if you are tall, you can catch a sight of the Pope's tiara in the distance; or, if you belong to the softer sex, you get a place behind the screen, where you cannot see, but, what is much better, can sit.

The atmosphere of the candle-lighted, crammed chapel is overpowering, and occupation you have none, except trying in the dim light to decipher the frescoes on the roof, with your head turned backwards.