Rome, Feb. 5, 1849.—­I am so delighted to get your letter, that I must answer on the instant.  I try with all my force to march straight onwards,—­to answer the claims of the day; to act out my feeling as seems right at the time, and not heed the consequences;—­but in my affections I am tender and weak; where I have really loved, a barrier, a break, causes me great suffering.  I read in your letter that I am still dear to you as you to me.  I always felt, that if we had passed more time together,—­if the intimacy, for which there was ground in the inner nature, had become consolidated,—­no after differences of opinion or conduct could have destroyed, though they might interrupt its pleasure.  But it was of few days’ standing,—­our interviews much interrupted.  I felt as if I knew you much better than you could me, because I had occasion to see you amid your various and habitual relations.  I was afraid you might change, or become indifferent; now I hope not.

True, I have written, shall write, about the affairs of Italy, what you will much dislike, if ever you see it.  I have done, may do, many things that would be very unpleasing to you; yet there is a congeniality, I dare to say, pure, and strong, and good, at the bottom of the heart, far, far deeper than these differences, that would always, on a real meeting, keep us friends.  For me, I could never have but one feeling towards you.

Now, for the first time, I enjoy a full communion with the spirit of Rome.  Last winter, I had here many friends; now all are dispersed, and sometimes I long to exchange thoughts with a friendly circle; but generally I am better content to live thus:—­the impression made by all the records of genius around is more unbroken; I begin to be very familiar with them.  The sun shines always, when last winter it never shone.  I feel strong; I can go everywhere on foot.  I pass whole days abroad; sometimes I take a book, but seldom read it:—­why should I, when every stone talks?

In spring, I shall go often out of town.  I have read “La Rome Souterraine” of Didier, and it makes me wish to see Ardea and Nettuno.  Ostia is the only one of those desolate sites that I know yet.  I study sometimes Niebuhr, and other books about Rome, but not to any great profit.

In the circle of my friends, two have fallen.  One a person of great wisdom, strength, and calmness.  She was ever to me a most tender friend, and one whose sympathy I highly valued.  Like you by nature and education conservative, she was through thought liberal.  With no exuberance or passionate impulsiveness herself, she knew how to allow for these in others.  The other was a woman of my years, of the most precious gifts in heart and genius.  She had also beauty and fortune.  She died at last of weariness and intellectual inanition.  She never, to any of us, her friends, hinted her sufferings.  But they were obvious in her poems, which, with great dignity, expressed a resolute but most mournful resignation.