TO R.F.F.

Rome, Feb. 23, 1849.—­It is something if one can get free foot-hold on the earth, so as not to be jostled out of hearing the music, if there should be any spirits in the air to make such.

For my part, I have led rather too lonely a life of late.  Before, it seemed as if too many voices of men startled away the inspirations; but having now lived eight months much alone, I doubt that good has come of it, and think to return, and go with others for a little.  I have realized in these last days the thought of Goethe,—­“He who would in loneliness live, ah! he is soon alone.  Each one loves, each one lives, and leaves him to his pain.”  I went away and hid, all summer.  Not content with that, I said, on returning to Rome, I must be busy and receive people little.  They have taken me at my word, and hardly one comes to see me.  Now, if I want play and prattle, I shall have to run after them.  It is fair enough that we all, in turn, should be made to feel our need of one another.

Never was such a winter as this.  Ten weeks now of unbroken sunshine and the mildest breezes.  Of course, its price is to be paid.  The spring, usually divine here, with luxuriant foliage and multitudinous roses, will be all scorched and dusty.  There is fear, too, of want of food for the poor Roman state.

I pass my days in writing, walking, occasional visits to the galleries.  I read little, except the newspapers; these take up an hour or two of the day.  I own, my thoughts are quite fixed on the daily bulletin of men and things.  I expect to write the history, but because it is so much in my heart.  If you were here, I rather think you would be impassive, like the two most esteemed Americans I see.  They do not believe in the sentimental nations.  Hungarians, Poles, Italians, are too demonstrative for them, too fiery, too impressible.  They like better the loyal, slow-moving Germans:  even the Russian, with his dog’s nose and gentlemanly servility, pleases them better than my people.  There is an antagonism of race.

TO E.S.

Rome, June 6, 1849.—­The help I needed was external, practical.  I knew myself all the difficulties and pains of my position; they were beyond present relief; from sympathy I could struggle with them, but had not life enough left, afterwards, to be a companion of any worth.  To be with persons generous and refined, who would not pain; who would sometimes lend a helping hand across the ditches of this strange insidious marsh, was all I could have now, and this you gave.