I have been so disconcerted by my Roman winter, that I dare not plan decisively again.  The enervating breath of Rome paralyzes my body, but I know and love her.  The expression, “City of the Soul,” designates her, and her alone.

TO MADAME ARCONATI.

Rome, May 27, 1848.—­This is my last day at Rome.  I have been passing several days at Subiaco and Tivoli, and return again to the country to-morrow.  These scenes of natural beauty have filled my heart, and increased, if possible, my desire that the people who have this rich inheritance may no longer be deprived of its benefits by bad institutions.

The people of Subiaco are poor, though very industrious, and cultivating every inch of ground, with even English care and neatness;—­so ignorant and uncultivated, while so finely and strongly made by Nature.  May God grant now, to this people, what they need!

An illumination took place last night, in honor of the “Illustrious Gioberti.”  He is received here with great triumph, his carriage followed with shouts of “Viva Gioberti, morte ai Jesuiti!” which must be pain to the many Jesuits, who, it is said, still linger here in disguise.  His triumphs are shared by Mamiani and Orioli, self-trumpeted celebrities, self-constituted rulers of the Roman states,—­men of straw, to my mind, whom the fire already kindled will burn into a handful of ashes.

I sit in my obscure corner, and watch the progress of events.  It is the position that pleases me best, and, I believe, the most favorable one.  Everything confirms me in my radicalism; and, without any desire to hasten matters, indeed with surprise to see them rush so like a torrent, I seem to see them all tending to realize my own hopes.

My health and spirits now much restored, I am beginning to set down some of my impressions.  I am going into the mountains, hoping there to find pure, strengthening air, and tranquillity for so many days as to allow me to do something.

TO R.F.  F——.

Rieti, July 1, 1848.—­Italy is as beautiful as even I hoped, and I should wish to stay here several years, if I had a moderate fixed income.  One wants but little money here, and can have with it many of the noblest enjoyments.  I should have been very glad if fate would allow me a few years of congenial life, at the end of not a few of struggle and suffering.  But I do not hope it; my fate will be the same to the close,—­beautiful gifts shown, and then withdrawn, or offered on conditions that make acceptance impossible.

TO MADAME ARCONATI.

Corpus Domini, June 22, 1848.—­I write such a great number of letters, having not less than a hundred correspondents, that it seems, every day, as if I had just written to each.  There is no one, surely, this side of the salt sea, with whom I wish more to keep up the interchange of thought than with you.