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TO HER BROTHER, R.B.  FULLER.

Rome, May 22, 1849.

I do not write to Eugene yet, because around me is such excitement I cannot settle my mind enough to write a letter good for anything.  The Neapolitans have been driven back; but the French, seem to be amusing us with a pretence of treaties, while waiting for the Austrians to come up.  The Austrians cannot, I suppose, be more than three days’ march from us.  I feel but little about myself.  Such thoughts are merged in indignation, and in the fears I have that Rome may be bombarded.  It seems incredible that any nation should be willing to incur the infamy of such an act,—­an act that may rob posterity of a most precious part of its inheritance;—­only so many incredible things have happened of late.  I am with William Story, his wife and uncle.  Very kind friends they have been in this strait.  They are going away, so soon as they can find horses,—­going into Germany.  I remain alone in the house, under our flag, almost the only American except the Consul and Ambassador.  But Mr. Cass, the Envoy, has offered to do anything for me, and I feel at liberty to call on him if I please.

But enough of this.  Let us implore of fate another good meeting, full and free, whether long or short.  Love to dearest mother, Arthur, Ellen, Lloyd.  Say to all, that, should any accident possible to these troubled times transfer me to another scene of existence, they need not regret it.  There must be better worlds than this, where innocent blood is not ruthlessly shed, where treason does not so easily triumph, where the greatest and best are not crucified.  I do not say this in apprehension, but in case of accident, you might be glad to keep this last word from your sister

MARGARET.

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TO R.W.  EMERSON.

Rome, June 10, 1849.

I received your letter amid the round of cannonade and musketry.  It was a terrible battle fought here from the first to the last light of day.  I could see all its progress from my balcony.  The Italians fought like lions.  It is a truly heroic spirit that animates them.  They make a stand here for honor and their rights, with little ground for hope that they can resist, now they are betrayed by France.

Since the 30th of April, I go almost daily to the hospitals, and though I have suffered, for I had no idea before how terrible gun-shot wounds and wound-fevers are, yet I have taken pleasure, and great pleasure, in being with the men.  There is scarcely one who is not moved by a noble spirit.  Many, especially among the Lombards, are the flower of the Italian youth.  When they begin to get better, I carry them books and flowers; they read, and we talk.

The palace of the Pope, on the Quirinal, is now used for convalescents.  In those beautiful gardens I walk with them, one with his sling, another with his crutch.  The gardener plays off all his water-works for the defenders of the country, and gathers flowers for me, their friend.