You are likely to have a work to look at in the United States by the great master of that school, Overbeck; Mr. Perkins of Boston, who knows how to spend his money with equal generosity and discretion, having bought his “Wise and Foolish Virgins.”  It will be precious to the country from great artistic merits.  As to the spirit, “blessed are the poor in spirit.”  That kind of severity is, perhaps has become, the nature of Overbeck.  He seems like a monk, but a really pious and pure one.  This spirit is not what I seek; I deem it too narrow for our day, but being deeply sincere in him, its expression is at times also deeply touching.  Barabbas borne in triumph, and the child Jesus, who, playing with his father’s tools, has made himself a cross, are subjects best adapted for expression of this spirit.

I have written too carelessly,—­much writing hath made me mad of late.  Forgive if the “style be not neat, terse, and sparkling,” if there be naught of the “thrilling,” if the sentences seem not “written with a diamond pen,” like all else that is published in America.  Some time I must try to do better.  For this time

  “Forgive my faults; forgive my virtues too.”

March 21.

Day before yesterday was the Feast of St. Joseph.  He is supposed to have acquired a fondness for fried rice-cakes during his residence in Egypt.  Many are eaten in the open street, in arbors made for the occasion.  One was made beneath my window, on Piazza Barberini.  All the day and evening men, cleanly dressed in white aprons and liberty caps, quite new, of fine, red cloth, were frying cakes for crowds of laughing, gesticulating customers.  It rained a little, and they held an umbrella over the frying-pan, but not over themselves.  The arbor is still there, and little children are playing in and out of it; one still lesser runs in its leading-strings, followed by the bold, gay nurse, to the brink of the fountain, after its orange which has rolled before it.  Tenerani’s workmen are coming out of his studio, the priests are coming home from Ponte Pio, the Contadini beginning to play at moro, for the setting sun has just lit up the magnificent range of windows in the Palazzo Barberini, and then faded tenderly, sadly away, and the mellow bells have chimed the Ave Maria.  Rome looks as Roman, that is to say as tranquil, as ever, despite the trouble that tugs at her heart-strings.  There is a report that Mazzini is to be made Dictator, as Manin is in Venice, for a short time, so as to provide hastily and energetically for the war.  Ave Maria Sanissima! when thou didst gaze on thy babe with such infinite hope, thou didst not dream that, so many ages after, blood would be shed and curses uttered in his name.  Madonna Addolorata! hadst thou not hoped peace and good-will would spring from his bloody woes, couldst thou have borne those hours at the foot of the cross.  O Stella! woman’s heart of love, send yet a ray of pure light on this troubled deep?