But far finest was it to pass through the Duomo.  No one was there.  Only the altars were lit up, and the priests, who were singing, could not be seen by the faint light.  The vast solemnity of the interior is thus really felt.  The hour was worthy of Brunelleschi.  I hope he walked there so.  The Duomo is more divine than St. Peter’s, and worthy of genius pure and unbroken.  St. Peter’s is, like Rome, a mixture of sublimest heaven with corruptest earth.  I adore the Duomo, though no place can now be to me like St. Peter’s, where has been passed the splendidest part of my life.  My feeling was always perfectly regal, on entering the piazza of St. Peter’s.  No spot on earth is worthier the sunlight;—­on none does it fall so fondly.

* * * * *

You ask me, how I employ myself here.  I have been much engaged in writing out my impressions, which will be of worth so far as correct.  I am anxious only to do historical justice to facts and persons; but there will not, so far as I am aware, be much thought, for I believe I have scarce expressed what lies deepest in my mind.  I take no pains, but let the good genius guide my pen.  I did long to lead a simple, natural life, at home, learning of my child, and writing only when imperatively urged by the need of utterance; but when we were forced to give up the hope of subsisting on a narrow independence, without tie to the public, we gave up the peculiar beauty of our lives, and I strive no more.  I only hope to make good terms with the publishers.

Then, I have been occupied somewhat in reading Louis Blanc’s Ten Years, Lamartine’s Girondists, and other books of that class, which throw light on recent transactions.

I go into society, too, somewhat, and see several delightful persons, in an intimate way.  The Americans meet twice a week, at the house of Messrs. Mozier and Chapman, and I am often present, on account of the friendly interest of those resident here.  With our friends, the Greenoughs, I have twice gone to the opera.  Then I see the Brownings often, and love and admire them both, more and more, as I know them better.  Mr. Browning enriches every hour I pass with him, and is a most cordial, true, and noble man.  One of my most highly prized Italian friends, also, Marchioness Arconati Visconti, of Milan, is passing the winter here, and I see her almost every day.

* * * * *

My love for Ossoli is most pure and tender, nor has any one, except my mother or little children, loved me so genuinely as he does.  To some, I have been obliged to make myself known; others have loved me with a mixture of fancy and enthusiasm, excited by my talent at embellishing life.  But Ossoli loves me from simple affinity;—­he loves to be with me, and to serve and soothe me.  Life will probably be a severe struggle, but I hope I shall be able to live through all that is before us, and not neglect my child or his father.  He has suffered enough since we met;—­it has ploughed furrows in his life.  He has done all he could, and cannot blame himself.  Our outward destiny looks dark, but we must brave it as we can.  I trust we shall always feel mutual tenderness, and Ossoli has a simple, childlike piety, that will make it easier for him.