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own that there are few worthy, and that I am one of the least.
A silken glove might be as good a gauntlet as one of steel, but I, infirm of mood, turn sick even now as I think of the past.
July, 1849.—I cannot tell you what I endured in leaving Rome; abandoning the wounded soldiers; knowing that there is no provision made for them, when they rise from the beds where they have been thrown by a noble courage, where they have suffered with a noble patience.
Some of the poorer men, who rise bereft even of the right arm,—one having lost both the right arm and the right leg,—I could have provided for with a small sum. Could I have sold my hair, or blood from my arm, I would have done it. Had any of the rich Americans remained in Rome, they would have given it to me; they helped nobly at first, in the service of the hospitals, when there was far less need; but they had all gone.
What would I have given that I could have spoken to one of the Lawrences, or the Phillipses; they could and would have saved the misery.
These poor men are left helpless in the power of a mean and vindictive foe. You felt so oppressed in the slave-states; imagine what I felt at seeing all the noblest youth, all the genius of this dear land, again enslaved.
You say, you are glad I have had this great opportunity for carrying out my principles.
Would it were so!
I found myself inferior in courage and fortitude to the occasion.
I knew not how
