_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.