A day or two since, we sat in the Pope’s little pavilion, where he used to give private audience.  The sun was going gloriously down over Monte Mario, where gleamed the white tents of the French light-horse among the trees.  The cannonade was heard at intervals.  Two bright-eyed boys sat at our feet, and gathered up eagerly every word said by the heroes of the day.  It was a beautiful hour, stolen from the midst of ruin and sorrow; and tales were told as full of grace and pathos as in the gardens of Boccaccio, only in a very different spirit,—­with noble hope for man, with reverence for woman.

The young ladies of the family, very young girls, were filled with enthusiasm for the suffering, wounded patriots, and they wished to go to the hospital to give their services.  Excepting the three superintendents, none but married ladies were permitted to serve there, but their services were accepted.  Their governess then wished to go too, and, as she could speak several languages, she was admitted to the rooms of the wounded soldiers, to interpret for them, as the nurses knew nothing but Italian, and many of these poor men were suffering, because they could not make their wishes known.  Some are French, some German, and many Poles.  Indeed, I am afraid it is too true that there were comparatively but few Romans among them.  This young lady passed several nights there.

Should I never return,—­and sometimes I despair of doing so, it seems so far off, so difficult, I am caught in such a net of ties here,—­if ever you know of my life here, I think you will only wonder at the constancy with which I have sustained myself; the degree of profit to which, amid great difficulties, I have put the time, at least in the way of observation.  Meanwhile, love me all you can; let me feel, that, amid the fearful agitations of the world, there are pure hands, with healthful, even pulse, stretched out toward me, if I claim their grasp.

I feel profoundly for Mazzini; at moments I am tempted to say, “Cursed with every granted prayer,”—­so cunning is the daemon.  He is become the inspiring soul of his people.  He saw Rome, to which all his hopes through life tended, for the first time as a Roman citizen, and to become in a few days its ruler.  He has animated, he sustains her to a glorious effort, which, if it fails, this time, will not in the age.  His country will be free.  Yet to me it would be so dreadful to cause all this bloodshed, to dig the graves of such martyrs.

Then Rome is being destroyed; her glorious oaks; her villas, haunts of sacred beauty, that seemed the possession of the world forever,—­the villa of Raphael, the villa of Albani, home of Winkelmann, and the best expression of the ideal of modern Rome, and so many other sanctuaries of beauty,—­all must perish, lest a foe should level his musket from their shelter. I could not, could not!

I know not, dear friend, whether I ever shall get home across that great ocean, but here in Rome I shall no longer wish to live.  O, Rome, my country! could I imagine that the triumph of what I held dear was to heap such desolation on thy head!