My dear friend, Madame Arconati, has shown me generous love;—­a contadina, whom I have known this summer, hardly less.  Every Sunday, she came in her holiday dress,—­beautiful corset of red silk richly embroidered, rich petticoat, nice shoes and stockings, and handsome coral necklace, on one arm an immense basket of grapes, in the other a pair of live chickens, to be eaten by me for her sake, ("per amore mio,”) and wanted no present, no reward; it was, as she said, “for the honor and pleasure of her acquaintance.”  The old father of the family never met me but he took off his hat and said, “Madame, it is to me a consolation to see you.”  Are there not sweet flowers of affection in life, glorious moments, great thoughts?—­why must they be so dearly paid for?

Many Americans have shown me great and thoughtful kindness, and none more so than W. S——­ and his wife.  They are now in Florence, but may return.  I do not know whether I shall stay here or not; shall be guided much by the state of my health.

All is quieted now in Rome.  Late at night the Pope had to yield, but not till the door of his palace was half burnt, and his confessor killed.  This man, Parma, provoked his fate by firing on the people from a window.  It seems the Pope never gave order to fire; his guard acted from a sudden impulse of their own.  The new ministry chosen are little inclined to accept.  It is almost impossible for any one to act, unless the Pope is stripped of his temporal power, and the hour for that is not yet quite ripe; though they talk more and more of proclaiming the Republic, and even of calling my friend Mazzini.

If I came home at this moment, I should feel as if forced to leave my own house, my own people, and the hour which I had always longed for.  If I do come in this way, all I can promise is to plague other people as little as possible.  My own plans and desires will be postponed to another world.

Do not feel anxious about me.  Some higher power leads me through strange, dark, thorny paths, broken at times by glades opening down into prospects of sunny beauty, into which I am not permitted to enter.  If God disposes for us, it is not for nothing.  This I can say, my heart is in some respects better, it is kinder and more humble.  Also, my mental acquisitions have certainly been great, however inadequate to my desires.

TO M.S.

Rome, Nov. 23, 1848.—­Mazzini has stood alone in Italy, on a sunny height, far above the stature of other men.  He has fought a great fight against folly, compromise, and treason; steadfast in his convictions, and of almost miraculous energy to sustain them, is he.  He has foes; and at this moment, while he heads the insurrection in the Valtellina, the Roman people murmur his name, and long to call him here.

How often rings in my ear the consolatory word of Koerner, after many struggles, many undeceptions, “Though the million suffer shipwreck, yet noble hearts survive!”