_Rome, June_ 10, 1849.--I received your letter amid the round of
cannonade and musketry. It was a terrible battle fought here from the
first till the last light of day. I could see all its progress from my
balcony. The Italians fought like lions. It is a truly heroic spirit
that animates them. They make a stand here for honor and their
rights, with little ground for hope that they can resist, now they are
betrayed by France.
Since the 30th April, I go almost daily to the hospitals, and,
though I have suffered,--for I had no idea before, how terrible
gunshot-wounds and wound-fever are,--yet I have taken pleasure, and
great pleasure, in being with the men; there is scarcely one who is
not moved by a noble spirit. Many, especially among the Lombards,
are the flower of the Italian youth. When they begin to get better, I
carry them books and flowers; they read, and we talk.
The palace of the Pope, on the Quirinal, is now used for
convalescents. In those beautiful gardens, I walk with them,--one with
his sling, another with his crutch. The gardener plays off all his
water-works for the defenders of the country, and gathers flowers for
me, their friend.
A day or two since, we sat in the Pope's little pavilion, where he
used to give private audience. The sun was going gloriously down over
Monte Mario, where gleamed the white tents of the French light-horse
among the trees. The cannonade was heard at intervals. Two bright-eyed
boys sat at our feet, and gathered up eagerly every word said by the
heroes of the day. It was a beautiful hour, stolen from the midst of
ruin and sorrow; and tales were told as full of grace and pathos as in
the gardens of Boccaccio, only in a very different spirit,--with noble
hope for man, with reverence for woman.
The young ladies of the family, very young girls, were filled with
enthusiasm for the suffering, wounded patriots, and they wished to
go to the hospital to give their services. Excepting the three
superintendents, none but married ladies were permitted to serve
there, but their services were accepted. Their governess then wished
to go too, and, as she could speak several languages, she was admitted
to the rooms of the wounded soldiers, to interpret for them, as the
nurses knew nothing but Italian, and many of these poor men were
suffering, because they could not make their wishes known. Some are
French, some German, and many Poles. Indeed, I am afraid it is too
true that there were comparatively but few Romans among them. This
young lady passed several nights there.
Should I never return,--and sometimes I despair of doing so, it seems
so far off, so difficult, I am caught in such a net of ties here,--if
ever you know of my life here, I think you will only wonder at the
constancy with which I have sustained myself; the degree of profit to
which, amid great difficulties, I have put the time, at least in the
way of observation. Meanwhile, love me all you can; let me feel, that,
amid the fearful agitations of the world, there are pure hands, with
healthful, even pulse, stretched out toward me, if I claim their
grasp.
I feel profoundly for Mazzini; at moments I am tempted to say, "Cursed
with every granted prayer,"--so cunning is the dæmon. He is become
the inspiring soul of his people. He saw Rome, to which all his hopes
through life tended, for the first time as a Roman citizen, and to
become in a few days its ruler. He has animated, he sustains her to a
glorious effort, which, if it fails, this time, will not in the age.
His country will be free. Yet to me it would be so dreadful to cause
all this bloodshed, to dig the graves of such martyrs.
Then Rome is being destroyed; her glorious oaks; her villas, haunts of
sacred beauty, that seemed the possession of the world forever,--the
villa of Raphael, the villa of Albani, home of Winkelmann, and
the best expression of the ideal of modern Rome, and so many other
sanctuaries of beauty,--all must perish, lest a foe should level his
musket from their shelter. _I_ could not, could not!
I know not, dear friend, whether I ever shall get home across that
great ocean, but here in Rome I shall no longer wish to live. O, Rome,
_my_ country! could I imagine that the triumph of what I held dear was
to heap such desolation on thy head!
Speaking of the republic, you say, do not I wish Italy had a great
man? Mazzini is a great man. In mind, a great poetic statesman; in
heart, a lover; in action, decisive and full of resource as Cæsar.
Dearly I love Mazzini. He came in, just as I had finished the first
letter to you. His soft, radiant look makes melancholy music in my
soul; it consecrates my present life, that, like the Magdalen, I may,
at the important hour, shed all the consecrated ointment on his head.
There is one, Mazzini, who understands thee well; who knew thee no
less when an object of popular fear, than now of idolatry; and who, if
the pen be not held too feebly, will help posterity to know thee too.