if Venice falls, there is no spot of Italian
earth where they can abide more, and certainly no Italian will wish
to take refuge in France. Truly you said, M. Lesseps, "Violence and
friendship are incompatible."

A military funeral of the officer Ramerino was sadly picturesque and
affecting. The white-robed priests went before the body singing, while
his brothers in arms bore the lighted tapers. His horse followed,
saddled and bridled. The horse hung his head and stepped dejectedly;
he felt there was something strange and gloomy going on,--felt that
his master was laid low. Ramerino left a wife and children. A great
proportion of those who run those risks are, happily, alone. Parents
weep, but will not suffer long; their grief is not like that of widows
and children.

Since the 3d we have only cannonade and skirmishes. The French are at
their trenches, but cannot advance much; they are too much molested
from the walls. The Romans have made one very successful sortie. The
French availed themselves of a violent thunderstorm, when the
walls were left more thinly guarded, to try to scale them, but were
immediately driven back. It was thought by many that they never would
be willing to throw bombs and shells into Rome, but they do whenever
they can. That generous hope and faith in them as republicans and
brothers, which put the best construction on their actions, and
believed in their truth as far as possible, is now destroyed. The
government is false, and the people do not resist; the general is
false, and the soldiers obey.

Meanwhile, frightful sacrifices are being made by Rome. All her
glorious oaks, all her gardens of delight, her casinos, full of the
monuments of genius and taste, are perishing in the defence. The
houses, the trees which had been spared at the gate of St. Pancrazio,
all afforded shelter to the foe, and caused so much loss of life,
that the Romans have now fully acquiesced in destruction agonizing to
witness. Villa Borghese is finally laid waste, the villa of Raphael
has perished, the trees are all cut down at Villa Albani, and the
house, that most beautiful ornament of Rome, must, I suppose, go too.
The stately marble forms are already driven from their place in that
portico where Winckelmann sat and talked with such delight. Villa
Salvage is burnt, with all its fine frescos, and that bank of the
Tiber shorn of its lovely plantations.

Rome will never recover the cruel ravage of these days, perhaps