_Rome, May_ 7, 1847.--I write not to you about these countries, of the
famous people I see, of magnificent shows and places. All these things
are only to me an illuminated margin on the text of my inward life.
Earlier, they would have been more. Art is not important to me now.
I like only what little I find that is transcendently good, and even
with that feel very familiar and calm. I take interest in the state
of the people, their manners, the state of the race in them. I see
the future dawning; it is in important aspects Fourier's future. But
I like no Fourierites; they are terribly wearisome here in Europe; the
tide of things does not wash through them as violently as with us, and
they have time to run in the tread-mill of system. Still, they serve
this great future which I shall not live to see. I must be born again.