Pray send here a good Ambassador,—­one that has experience of foreign life, that he may act with good judgment, and, if possible, a man that has knowledge and views which extend beyond the cause of party politics in the United States,—­a man of unity in principles, but capable of understanding variety in forms.  And send a man capable of prizing the luxury of living in, or knowing Rome; the office of Ambassador is one that should not be thrown away on a person who cannot prize or use it.  Another century, and I might ask to be made Ambassador myself, (’tis true, like other Ambassadors, I would employ clerks to do the most of the duty,) but woman’s day has not come yet.  They hold their clubs in Paris, but even George Sand will not act with women as they are.  They say she pleads they are too mean, too treacherous.  She should not abandon them for that, which is not nature, but misfortune.  How much I shall have to say on that subject if I live, which I desire not, for I am very tired of the battle with giant wrongs, and would like to have some one younger and stronger arise to say what ought to be said, still more to do what ought to be done.  Enough! if I felt these things in privileged America, the cries of mothers and wives beaten at night by sons and husbands for their diversion after drinking, as I have repeatedly heard them these past months,—­the excuse for falsehood, “I dare not tell my husband, he would be ready to kill me,”—­have sharpened my perception as to the ills of woman’s condition and the remedies that must be applied.  Had I but genius, had I but energy, to tell what I know as it ought to be told!  God grant them me, or some other more worthy woman, I pray.

Don Tirlone, the Punch of Rome, has just come in.  This number represents the fortress of Gaeta.  Outside hangs a cage containing a parrot (pappagallo), the plump body of the bird surmounted by a noble large head with benign face and Papal head-dress.  He sits on the perch now with folded wings, but the cage door, in likeness of a portico, shows there is convenience to come forth for the purposes of benediction, when wanted.  Outside, the king of Naples, dressed as Harlequin, plays the organ for instruction of the bird (unhappy penitent, doomed to penance), and, grinning with sharp teeth, observes:  “He speaks in my way now.”  In the background a young Republican holds ready the match for a barrel of gunpowder, but looks at his watch, waiting the moment to ignite it.

A happy New Year to my country! may she be worthy of the privileges she possesses, while others are lavishing their blood to win them,—­that is all that need be wished for her at present.

LETTER XXVII.

ROME.—­THE CARNIVAL:  THE MOCCOLETTI.—­THE ROMAN CHARACTER.—­THE
POPE’S FLIGHT.—­THE ASSEMBLY.—­THE PEOPLE.—­THE POPE’S MISTAKE.—­HIS
MANIFESTO:  ITS TONE AND EFFECT.—­DESTRUCTION OF THE TEMPORAL DOMINION
OF THE CHURCH.