ble that collision should not arise between him who
retains the name but not the place of sovereign, and the provisional
government which calls itself a ministry. The Count Mamiani, its new
head, is a man of reputation as a writer, but untried as yet as a
leader or a statesman. Should agitations arise, the Pope can no longer
calm them by one of his fatherly looks.

All lies in the future; and our best hope must be that the Power which
has begun so great a work will find due means to end it, and make the
year 1850 a year of true jubilee to Italy; a year not merely of pomps
and tributes, but of recognized rights and intelligent joys; a year of
real peace,--peace, founded not on compromise and the lying etiquettes
of diplomacy, but on truth and justice.

Then this sad disappointment in Pius IX. may be forgotten, or, while
all that was lovely and generous in his life is prized and reverenced,
deep instruction may be drawn from his errors as to the inevitable
dangers of a priestly or a princely environment, and a higher
knowledge may elevate a nobler commonwealth than the world has yet
known.

Hoping this era, I remain at present here. Should my hopes be dashed
to the ground, it will not change my faith, but the struggle for its
manifestation is to me of vital interest. My friends write to urge my
return; they talk of our country as the land of the future. It is so,
but that spirit which made it all it is of value in my eyes, which
gave all of hope with which I can sympathize for that future, is
more alive here at present than in America. My country is at present
spoiled by prosperity, stupid with the lust of gain, soiled by crime
in its willing perpetuation of slavery, shamed by an unjust war, noble
sentiment much forgotten even by individuals, the aims of politicians
selfish or petty, the literature frivolous and venal. In Europe, amid
the teachings of adversity, a nobler spirit is struggling,--a spirit
which cheers and animates mine. I hear earnest words of pure faith and
love. I see deeds of brotherhood. This is what makes _my_ America. I
do not deeply distrust my country. She is not dead, but in my time she
sleepeth, and the spirit of our fathers flames no more, but lies hid
beneath the ashes. It will not be so long; bodies cannot live when the
soul gets too overgrown with gluttony and falsehood. But it is not the
making a President out of the Mexican war that would make me wish to
come back. Here things are before m