ibaldi obliged us to let his enter, and I have even seen them braiding their hair.’ Maria of the episcopal garden has left her card in the form of a pair of pigeons. I could find much repose for the moment in these simple traits of a limited life, and in this pure air, were it not for the state in which I find my baby. You know, my dear Mr. Cass, I flattered you with the thought you would be happy in having a child; may you never know such a pang as I felt in kissing his poor, pale little hand which he can hardly lift. He is worn to a skeleton, all his sweet childish graces fled; he is so weak it seems to me he can scarcely ever revive to health. If he cannot, I do not wish him to live; life is hard enough for the strong, it is too much for the feeble. Only, if he dies, I hope I shall, too. I was too fatigued before, and this last shipwreck of hopes would be more than I could bear. Adieu, dear Mr. Cass, write when you can; tell me of the world, of which I hear nothing here, of suffering Rome — always dear, whatever may oppress me — and of yourself. Ever yours, M. O.”[1]
I add one more extract from a letter, without date, but of the same period, from Madame Ossoli to Mrs. Story: —
… “You say no secret can be kept in the civilized world, and I suppose not long. But it is very important to me to keep this for the present, if possible, and by and by to have the mode of disclosure at my option. For this I have made the cruelest sacrifices. It will, indeed, be just like the rest, if they are made of none effect.
“After I wrote to you I went to Rieti. The weather
- ↑ MS.
