and I reckon a new birthday,—a true new birth from the day I entered Rome.
Dec. 5, 1786.
During the few weeks that I have been here, I have already seen many strangers come and go, so that I have often wondered at the levity with which so many treat these precious moments. God be thanked that hereafter none of those birds of passage will be able to impose upon me. When, in the North, they shall speak to me of Rome, none of them now will be able to excite my spleen; for I also have seen it, and know too, in some degree, where I have been.
Dec. 8, 1786.
We have, every now and then, the most beautiful days. The rain which falls from time to time has made the grass and garden-stuffs quite verdant. Evergreens, too, are to be seen here at different spots, so that one scarcely misses the fallen leaves of the forest trees. In the gardens you may see orange-trees full of fruit, left in the open ground and not under cover.
I had intended to give you a particular account of a very pleasant trip which we took to the sea, and of our fishing exploits; but in the evening poor Moritz, as he was riding home, broke his arm, his horse having slipped on the smooth Roman pavement. This marred all our pleasure, and has plunged our little domestic circle in sad affliction.
Dec. 13, 1786.
I am heartily delighted that you have taken my sudden disappearance just as I wished you should. Pray appease for me every one that may have taken offence at it. I never wished to give any one pain, and even now I cannot say anything to excuse myself. God keep me from ever afflicting my friends with the premises which led me to this resolution.
