I believe, if you could know my heart as God knows it, and see the causes that regulate my conduct, you would always love me.  But already, in absence, I have lost, for the present, some of those who were dear to me, by failure of letters, or false report.  After sorrowing much about a falsehood told me of a dearest friend, I found his letter at Torlonia’s, which had been there ten months, and, duly received, would have made all right.  There is something fatal in my destiny about correspondence.

But I will say no more of this; only the loss of that letter to you, at such an unfortunate time,—­just when I most wished to seem the loving and grateful friend I was,—­made me fear it might be my destiny to lose you too.  But if any cross event shall do me this ill turn on earth, we shall meet again in that clear state of intelligence which men call heaven.

I see by the journals that you have not lost Montanelli.  That noble mind is still spared to Italy.  The Pope’s heart is incapable of treason; but he has fallen short of the office fate assigned him.

I am no bigoted Republican, yet I think that form of government will eventually pervade the civilized world.  Italy may not be ripe for it yet, but I doubt if she finds peace earlier; and this hasty annexation of Lombardy to the crown of Sardinia seems, to me, as well as I can judge, an act unworthy and unwise.  Base, indeed, the monarch, if it was needed, and weak no less than base; for he was already too far engaged in the Italian cause to retire with honor or wisdom.

I am here, in a lonely mountain home, writing the narrative of my European experience.  To this I devote great part of the day.  Three or four hours I pass in the open air, on donkey or on foot.  When I have exhausted this spot, perhaps I shall try another.  Apply as I may, it will take three months, at least, to finish my book.  It grows upon me.

TO R.W.E.

Rieti, July 11, 1848.—­Once I had resolution to face my difficulties myself, and try to give only what was pleasant to others; but now that my courage has fairly given way, and the fatigue of life is beyond my strength, I do not prize myself, or expect others to prize me.

Some years ago, I thought you very unjust, because you did not lend full faith to my spiritual experiences; but I see you were quite right.  I thought I had tasted of the true elixir, and that the want of daily bread, or the pangs of imprisonment, would never make me a complaining beggar.  A widow, I expected still to have the cruse full for others.  Those were glorious hours, and angels certainly visited me; but there must have been too much earth,—­too much taint of weakness and folly, so that baptism did not suffice.  I know now those same things, but at present they are words, not living spells.