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to her mother.
Rome, Nov. 16, 1848.—Of other circumstances which complicate my position I cannot write.
Were you here, I would confide in you fully, and have more than once, in the silence of the night, recited to you those most strange and romantic chapters in the story of my sad life.
At one time when I thought I might die, I empowered a person, who has given me, as far as possible to him, the aid and sympathy of a brother, to communicate them to you, on his return to the United States.
But now I think we shall meet again, and I am sure you will always love your daughter, and will know gladly that in all events she has tried to aid and striven never to injure her fellows.
In earlier days, I dreamed of doing and being much, but now am content with the Magdalen to rest my plea hereon, ‘She has loved much.’
You, loved mother, keep me informed, as you have, of important facts, especially the worst. The thought of you, the knowledge of your angelic nature, is always one of my greatest supports.
Happy those who have such a mother!
Myriad instances of selfishness and corruption of heart cannot destroy the confidence in human nature.
I am again in Rome, situated for the first time entirely to my mind.
I have but one room, but large; and everything about the bed so gracefully and adroitly disposed that it makes a beautiful parlor, and of course I pay much less.
I have the sun all day, and an excellent chimney.
It is very high and has pure air, and the most beautiful view all around imaginable.
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