Nature seems in sympathy with the great events that are transpiring,—­with the emotions which are swelling the hearts of men.  The morning sun is greeted by the trumpets of the Roman legions marching out once more, now not to oppress but to defend.  The stars look down on their jubilees over the good news which nightly reaches them from their brothers of Lombardy.  This week has been one of nobler, sweeter feeling, of a better hope and faith, than Rome in her greatest days ever knew.  How much has happened since I wrote!  First, the victorious resistance of Sicily and the revolution of Naples.  This has led us yet only to half-measures, but even these have been of great use to the progress of Italy.  The Neapolitans will probably have to get rid at last of the stupid crowned head who is at present their puppet; but their bearing with him has led to the wiser sovereigns granting these constitutions, which, if eventually inadequate to the wants of Italy, will be so useful, are so needed, to educate her to seek better, completer forms of administration.

In the midst of all this serious work came the play of Carnival, in which there was much less interest felt than usual, but enough to dazzle and captivate a stranger.  One thing, however, has been omitted in the description of the Roman Carnival; i.e. that it rains every day.  Almost every day came on violent rain, just as the tide of gay masks was fairly engaged in the Corso.  This would have been well worth bearing once or twice, for the sake of seeing the admirable good humor of this people.  Those who had laid out all their savings in the gayest, thinnest dresses, on carriages and chairs for the Corso, found themselves suddenly drenched, their finery spoiled, and obliged to ride and sit shivering all the afternoon.  But they never murmured, never scolded, never stopped throwing their flowers.  Their strength of constitution is wonderful.  While I, in my shawl and boa, was coughing at the open window from the moment I inhaled the wet sepulchral air, the servant-girls of the house had taken off their woollen gowns, and, arrayed in white muslins and roses, sat in the drenched street beneath the drenching rain, quite happy, and have suffered nothing in consequence.

The Romans renounced the Moccoletti, ostensibly as an expression of sympathy for the sufferings of the Milanese, but really because, at that time, there was great disturbance about the Jesuits, and the government feared that difficulties would arise in the excitement of the evening.  But, since, we have had this entertainment in honor of the revolutions of France and Austria, and nothing could be more beautiful.  The fun usually consists in all the people blowing one another’s lights out.  We had not this; all the little tapers were left to blaze, and the long Corso swarmed with tall fire-flies.  Lights crept out over the surface of all the houses, and such merry little twinkling lights, laughing and flickering