traw hats turned up with roses. I never
saw anything like the merry good-humor of these people. I should
always be ashamed to complain of anything here. But I had always
looked forward to the Roman Carnival as a time when I could play too;
and it even surpassed my expectations, with its exuberant gayety and
innocent frolic, but I was unable to take much part. The others threw
flowers all day, and went to masked balls all night; but I went out
only once, in a carriage, and was more exhausted with the storm of
flowers and sweet looks than I could be by a storm of hail. I went
to the German Artists' ball, where were some pretty costumes, and
beautiful music; and to the Italian masked ball, where interest lies
in intrigue.

I have scarcely gone to the galleries, damp and cold as tombs; or to
the mouldy old splendor of churches, where, by the way, they are
just wailing over the theft of St. Andrew's head, for the sake of
the jewels. It is quite a new era for this population to plunder the
churches; but they are suffering terribly, and Pio's municipality
does, as yet, nothing.

TO W.H.C.

_Rome, March 29, 1848._--I have been engrossed, stunned almost, by the
public events that have succeeded one another with such rapidity
and grandeur. It is a time such as I always dreamed of, and for long
secretly hoped to see. I rejoice to be in Europe at this time, and
shall return possessed of a great history. Perhaps I shall be called
to act. At present, I know not where to go, what to do. War is
everywhere. I cannot leave Rome, and the men of Rome are marching out
every day into Lombardy. The citadel of Milan is in the hands of my
friends, Guerriere, &c., but there may be need to spill much blood yet
in Italy. France and Germany are riot in such a state that I can go
there now. A glorious flame burns higher and higher in the heart of
the nations.

* * * * *

The rain was constant through the Roman winter, falling in torrents
from 16th December to 19th March. Now the Italian heavens wear again
their deep blue, the sun is glorious, the melancholy lustres are
stealing again over the Campagna, and hundreds of larks sing unwearied
above its ruins. Nature seems in sympathy with the great events that
are transpiring. How much has happened since I wrote!--the resistance
of Sicily, and the revolution of Naples; now the fall of Louis
Philippe; and Metternich is crushed in Austria. I saw the Austrian