I hear, at this moment, the clock of the Church del Purgatorio telling noon in this mountain solitude.  Snow yet lingers on these mountain-tops, after forty days of hottest sunshine, last night broken by a few clouds, prefatory to a thunder storm this morning.  It has been so hot here, that even the peasant in the field says, “Non porro piu resistere,” and slumbers in the shade, rather than the sun.  I love to see their patriarchal ways of guarding the sheep and tilling the fields.  They are a simple race.  Remote from the corruptions of foreign travel, they do not ask for money, but smile upon and bless me as I pass,—­for the Italians love me; they say I am so “simpatica.” I never see any English or Americans, and now think wholly in Italian:  only the surgeon who bled me, the other day, was proud to speak a little French, which he had learned at Tunis!  The ignorance of this people is amusing.  I am to them a divine visitant,—­an instructive Ceres,—­telling them wonderful tales of foreign customs, and even legends of the lives of their own saints.  They are people whom I could love and live with.  Bread and grapes among them would suffice me.

TO HER MOTHER.

Rome, Nov. 16, 1848.—­* * * Of other circumstances which complicate my position I cannot write.  Were you here, I would confide in you fully, and have more than once, in the silence of the night, recited to you those most strange and romantic chapters in the story of my sad life.  At one time when I thought I might die, I empowered a person, who has given me, as far as possible to him, the aid and sympathy of a brother, to communicate them to you, on his return to the United States.  But now I think we shall meet again, and I am sure you will always love your daughter, and will know gladly that in all events she has tried to aid and striven never to injure her fellows.  In earlier days, I dreamed of doing and being much, but now am content with the Magdalen to rest my plea hereon, “She has loved much.”

You, loved mother, keep me informed, as you have, of important facts, especially the worst.  The thought of you, the knowledge of your angelic nature, is always one of my greatest supports.  Happy those who have such a mother!  Myriad instances of selfishness and corruption of heart cannot destroy the confidence in human nature.

I am again in Rome, situated for the first time entirely to my mind.  I have but one room, but large; and everything about the bed so gracefully and adroitly disposed that it makes a beautiful parlor, and of course I pay much less.  I have the sun all day, and an excellent chimney.  It is very high and has pure air, and the most beautiful view all around imaginable.  Add, that I am with the dearest, delightful old couple one can imagine, quick, prompt, and kind, sensible and contented.  Having no children, they like to regard me and the Prussian sculptor, my neighbor,