Since the 3d we have only cannonade and skirmishes.  The French are at their trenches, but cannot advance much; they are too much molested from the walls.  The Romans have made one very successful sortie.  The French availed themselves of a violent thunderstorm, when the walls were left more thinly guarded, to try to scale them, but were immediately driven back.  It was thought by many that they never would be willing to throw bombs and shells into Rome, but they do whenever they can.  That generous hope and faith in them as republicans and brothers, which put the best construction on their actions, and believed in their truth as far as possible, is now destroyed.  The government is false, and the people do not resist; the general is false, and the soldiers obey.

Meanwhile, frightful sacrifices are being made by Rome.  All her glorious oaks, all her gardens of delight, her casinos, full of the monuments of genius and taste, are perishing in the defence.  The houses, the trees which had been spared at the gate of St. Pancrazio, all afforded shelter to the foe, and caused so much loss of life, that the Romans have now fully acquiesced in destruction agonizing to witness.  Villa Borghese is finally laid waste, the villa of Raphael has perished, the trees are all cut down at Villa Albani, and the house, that most beautiful ornament of Rome, must, I suppose, go too.  The stately marble forms are already driven from their place in that portico where Winckelmann sat and talked with such delight.  Villa Salvage is burnt, with all its fine frescos, and that bank of the Tiber shorn of its lovely plantations.

Rome will never recover the cruel ravage of these days, perhaps only just begun.  I had often thought of living a few months near St. Peter’s, that I might go as much as I liked to the church and the museum, have Villa Pamfili and Monte Mario within the compass of a walk.  It is not easy to find lodgings there, as it is a quarter foreigners never inhabit; but, walking about to see what pleasant places there were, I had fixed my eye on a clean, simple house near Ponte St. Angelo.  It bore on a tablet that it was the property of Angela ——­; its little balconies with their old wooden rails, full of flowers in humble earthen vases, the many bird-cages, the air of domestic quiet and comfort, marked it as the home of some vestal or widow, some lone woman whose heart was centred in the ordinary and simplest pleasures of a home.  I saw also she was one having the most limited income, and I thought, “She will not refuse to let me a room for a few months, as I shall be as quiet as herself, and sympathize about the flowers and birds.”  Now the Villa Pamfili is all laid waste.  The French encamp on Monte Mario; what they have done there is not known yet.  The cannonade reverberates all day under the dome of St. Peter’s, and the house of poor Angela is levelled with the ground.  I hope her birds and the white peacocks of the Vatican gardens are in safety;—­but who cares for gentle, harmless creatures now?