The Italian autumn is not as beautiful as I expected, neither in the vintage of Tuscany nor here.  The country is really sere and brown; but the weather is fine, and these October feasts are charming.  Two days I have been at the Villa Borghese.  There are races, balloons, and, above all, the private gardens open, and good music on the little lake.

TO ——.

Rome, morning of the 17th Nov., 1847.—­It seems great folly to send the enclosed letter.  I have written it in my nightly fever.  All day I dissipate my thoughts on outward beauty.  I have many thoughts, happiest moments, but as yet I do not have even this part in a congenial way.  I go about in a coach with several people; but English and Americans are not at home here.  Since I have experienced the different atmosphere of the European mind, and been allied with it, nay, mingled in the bonds of love, I suffer more than ever from that which is peculiarly American or English.  I should like to cease from hearing the language for a time.  Perhaps I should return to it; but at present I am in a state of unnatural divorce from what I was most allied to.

There is a Polish countess here, who likes me much.  She has been very handsome, still is, in the style of the full-blown rose.  She is a widow, very rich, one of the emancipated women, naturally vivacious, and with talent.  This woman envies me; she says, “How happy you are; so free, so serene, so attractive, so self-possessed!” I say not a word, but I do not look on myself as particularly enviable.  A little money would have made me much more so; a little money would have enabled me to come here long ago, and find those that belong to me, or at least try my experiments; then my health would never have sunk, nor the best years of my life been wasted in useless friction.  Had I money now,—­could I only remain, take a faithful servant, and live alone, and still see those I love when it is best, that would suit me.  It seems to me, very soon I shall be calmed, and begin to enjoy.

TO HER MOTHER.

Rome, Dec. 16, 1847.—­My life at Rome is thus far all I hoped.  I have not been so well since I was a child, nor so happy ever, as during the last six weeks.  I wrote you about my home; it continues good, perfectly clean, food wholesome, service exact.  For all this I pay, but not immoderately.  I think the sum total of my expenses here, for six months, will not exceed four hundred and fifty dollars.

My marchesa, of whom I rent my rooms, is the greatest liar I ever knew, and the most interested, heartless creature.  But she thinks it for her interest to please me, as she sees I have a good many persons who value me; and I have been able, without offending her, to make it understood that I do not wish her society.  Thus I remain undisturbed.

Every Monday evening, I receive my acquaintance.  I give no refreshment, but only light the saloon, and decorate it with fresh flowers, of which I have plenty still.  How I wish you could see them!