_Rome, Dec_. 20, 1847.--Nothing less than two or three years, free
from care and forced labor, would heal all my hurts, and renew my
life-blood at its source. Since Destiny will not grant me that, I hope
she will not leave me long in the world, for I am tired of keeping
myself up in the water without corks, and without strength to swim.
I should like to go to sleep, and be born again into a state where my
young life should not be prematurely taxed.
Italy has been glorious to me, and there have been hours in which I
received the full benefit of the vision. In Rome, I have known some
blessed, quiet days, when I could yield myself to be soothed and
instructed by the great thoughts and memories of the place. But those
days are swiftly passing. Soon I must begin to exert myself, for
there is this incubus of the future, and none to help me, if I am not
prudent to face it. So ridiculous, too, this mortal coil,--such small
things!
I find how true was the lure that always drew me towards Europe. It
was no false instinct that said I might here find an atmosphere to
develop me in ways I need. Had I only come ten years earlier! Now
my life must be a failure, so much strength has been wasted on
abstractions, which only came because I grew not in the right soil.
However, it is a less failure than with most others, and not worth
thinking twice about. Heaven has room enough, and good chances in
store, and I can live a great deal in the years that remain.