uffering. But I do not hope it; my fate will be the same
to the close,--beautiful gifts shown, and then withdrawn, or offered
on conditions that make acceptance impossible.

TO MADAME ARCONATI.

_Corpus Domini, June_ 22, 1848.--I write such a great number of
letters, having not less than a hundred correspondents, that it seems,
every day, as if I had just written to each. There is no one, surely,
this side of the salt sea, with whom I wish more to keep up the
interchange of thought than with you.

I believe, if you could know my heart as God knows it, and see
the causes that regulate my conduct, you would always love me. But
already, in absence, I have lost, for the present, some of those
who were dear to me, by failure of letters, or false report. After
sorrowing much about a falsehood told me of a dearest friend, I found
his letter at Torlonia's, which had been there ten months, and, duly
received, would have made all right. There is something fatal in my
destiny about correspondence.

But I will say no more of this; only the loss of that letter to you,
at such an unfortunate time,--just when I most wished to seem the
loving and grateful friend I was,--made me fear it might be my destiny
to lose you too. But if any cross event shall do me this ill turn on
earth, we shall meet again in that clear state of intelligence which
men call heaven.

I see by the journals that you have not lost Montanelli. That noble
mind is still spared to Italy. The Pope's heart is incapable of
treason; but he has fallen short of the office fate assigned him.

I am no bigoted Republican, yet I think that form of government will
eventually pervade the civilized world. Italy may not be ripe for it
yet, but I doubt if she finds peace earlier; and this hasty annexation
of Lombardy to the crown of Sardinia seems, to me, as well as I can
judge, an act unworthy and unwise. Base, indeed, the monarch, if it
was needed, and weak no less than base; for he was already too far
engaged in the Italian cause to retire with honor or wisdom.

I am here, in a lonely mountain home, writing the narrative of my
European experience. To this I devote great part of the day. Three or
four hours I pass in the open air, on donkey or on foot. When I have
exhausted this spot, perhaps I shall try another. Apply as I may, it
will take three months, at least, to finish my book. It grows upon me.

TO R.W.E.

_Rieti, July_ 11, 1848.--Once I had resol