The two or three days that followed, the troops were marching about by detachments, followed always by the people, to the Ponte Molle, often farther.  The women wept; for the habits of the Romans are so domestic, that it seemed a great thing to have their sons and lovers gone even for a few months.  The English—­or at least those of the illiberal, bristling nature too often met here, which casts out its porcupine quills against everything like enthusiasm (of the more generous Saxon blood I know some noble examples)—­laughed at all this.  They have said that this people would not fight; when the Sicilians, men and women, did so nobly, they said:  “O, the Sicilians are quite unlike the Italians; you will see, when the struggle comes on in Lombardy, they cannot resist the Austrian force a moment.”  I said:  “That force is only physical; do not you think a sentiment can sustain them?” They replied:  “All stuff and poetry; it will fade the moment their blood flows.”  When the news came that the Milanese, men and women, fight as the Sicilians did, they said:  “Well, the Lombards are a better race, but these Romans are good for nothing.  It is a farce for a Roman to try to walk even; they never walk a mile; they will not be able to support the first day’s march of thirty miles, and not have their usual minestra to eat either.”  Now the troops were not willing to wait for the government to make the necessary arrangements for their march, so at the first night’s station—­Monterosi—­they did not find food or bedding; yet the second night, at Civita Castellana, they were so well alive as to remain dancing and vivaing Pio Nono in the piazza till after midnight.  No, Gentlemen, soul is not quite nothing, if matter be a clog upon its transports.

The Americans show a better, warmer feeling than they did; the meeting in New York was of use in instructing the Americans abroad!  The dinner given here on Washington’s birthday was marked by fine expressions of sentiment, and a display of talent unusual on such occasions.  There was a poem from Mr. Story of Boston, which gave great pleasure; a speech by Mr. Hillard, said to be very good, and one by Rev. Mr. Hedge of Bangor, exceedingly admired for the felicity of thought and image, and the finished beauty of style.

Next week we shall have more news, and I shall try to write and mention also some interesting things want of time obliges me to omit in this letter.

April 1.

Yesterday I passed at Ostia and Castle Fusano.  A million birds sang; the woods teemed with blossoms; the sod grew green hourly over the graves of the mighty Past; the surf rushed in on a fair shore; the Tiber majestically retreated to carry inland her share from the treasures of the deep; the sea-breezes burnt my face, but revived my heart.  I felt the calm of thought, the sublime hopes of the future, nature, man,—­so great, though so little,—­so dear, though incomplete.  Returning to Rome, I find the news pronounced official, that the viceroy Ranieri has capitulated at Verona; that Italy is free, independent, and one.  I trust this will prove no April-foolery, no premature news; it seems too good, too speedy a realization of hope, to have come on earth, and can only be answered in the words of the proclamation made yesterday by Pius IX.:—­