For several days there was no going to Rome; but at last we set forth in two great diligences, with all the horses of the route.  For many miles the mountains and ravines were covered with snow; I seemed to have returned to my own country and climate.  Few miles were passed before the conductor injured his leg under the wheel, and I had the pain of seeing him suffer all the way, while “Blood of Jesus!” and “Souls in Purgatory!” was the mildest beginning of an answer to the jeers of the postilions upon his paleness.  We stopped at a miserable osteria, in whose cellar we found a magnificent relic of Cyclopean architecture,—­as indeed in Italy one is paid at every step for discomfort and danger, by some precious subject of thought.  We proceeded very slowly, and reached just at night a solitary little inn which marks the site of the ancient home of the Sabine virgins, snatched away to become the mothers of Rome.  We were there saluted with, the news that the Tiber also had overflowed its banks, and it was very doubtful if we could pass.  But what else to do?  There were no accommodations in the house for thirty people, or even for three; and to sleep in the carriages, in that wet air of the marshes, was a more certain danger than to attempt the passage.  So we set forth; the moon, almost at the full, smiling sadly on the ancient grandeurs half draped in mist, and anon drawing over her face a thin white veil.  As we approached the Tiber, the towers and domes of Rome could be seen, like a cloud lying low on the horizon.  The road and the meadows, alike under water, Jay between us and it, one sheet of silver.  The horses entered; they behaved nobly.  We proceeded, every moment uncertain if the water would not become deep; but the scene was beautiful, and I enjoyed it highly.  I have never yet felt afraid, when really in the presence of danger, though sometimes in its apprehension.

At last we entered the gate; the diligence stopping to be examined, I walked to the gate of Villa Ludovisi, and saw its rich shrubberies of myrtle, so pale and eloquent in the moonlight....

My dear friend, Madame Arconati, has shown me generous love; a Contadina, whom I have known this summer, hardly less.  Every Sunday she came in her holiday dress, a beautiful corset of red silk, richly embroidered, rich petticoat, nice shoes and stockings, and handsome coral necklace, on one arm an immense basket of grapes, on the other a pair of live chickens to be eaten by me for her sake ("per amore mio"), and wanted no present, no reward:  it was, as she said, “for the honor and pleasure of her acquaintance.”  The old father of the family never met me but he took off his hat, and said, “Madame, it is to me a consolation to see you.”  Are there not sweet flowers of affection in life, glorious moments, great thoughts?  Why must they be so dearly paid for?

Many Americans have shown me great and thoughtful kindness and none more so than William Story and his wife.  They are now in Florence, but may return.  I do not know whether I shall stay here or not:  I shall be guided much by the state of my health.