You are disappointed by my letter from Rome.  But I did not feel equal then to speaking of the things of Rome, and shall not, till better acquaintance has steadied my mind.  It is a matter of conscience with me not to make use of crude impressions, and what they call here “coffee-house intelligence,” as travellers generally do.  I prefer skimming over the surface of things, till I feel solidly ready to write.

Milan I left with great regret, and hope to return.  I knew there a circle of the aspiring youth, such as I have not in any other city.  I formed many friendships, and learned a great deal.  One of the young men, Guerrieri by name, (and of the famous Gonzaga family,) I really love.  He has a noble soul, the quietest sensibility, and a brilliant and ardent, though not a great, mind.  He is eight-and-twenty.  After studying medicine for the culture, he has taken law as his profession.  His mind and that of Hicks, an artist of our country now here, a little younger, are two that would interest you greatly.  Guerrieri speaks no English; I speak French now as fluently as English, but incorrectly.  To make use of it, I ought to have learned it earlier.

Arriving here, Mr. Mozier, an American, who from a prosperous merchant has turned sculptor, come hither to live, and promises much excellence in his profession, urged me so much to his house, that I came.  At first, I was ill from fatigue, and staid several days in bed; but his wife took tender care of me, and the quiet of their house and regular simple diet have restored me.  As soon as I have seen a few things here, I shall go to Rome.  On my way, I stopped at Parma,—­saw the works of Correggio and Parmegiano.  I have now seen what Italy contains most important of the great past; I begin to hope for her also a great future,—­the signs have improved so much since I came.  I am most fortunate to be here at this time.

Interrupted, as always.  How happy I should be if my abode at Rome would allow some chance for tranquil and continuous effort.  But I dare not hope much, from the difficulty of making any domestic arrangements that can be relied on.  The fruit of the moment is so precious, that I must not complain.  I learn much; but to do anything with what I learn is, under such circumstances, impossible.  Besides, I am in great need of repose; I am almost inert from fatigue of body and spirit.

TO E.H.

Florence, Sept., 1847.—­I cannot even begin to speak of the magnificent scenes of nature, nor the works of art, that have raised and filled my mind since I wrote from Naples.  Now I begin to be in Italy! but I wish to drink deep of this cup before I speak my enamored words.  Enough to say, Italy receives me as a long-lost child, and I feel myself at home here, and if I ever tell anything about it, you will hear something real and domestic.  Among strangers I wish most to speak to you of my