But enough of myself, when I am much more concerned about you. I see plainly enough how intense is your desire to go to Rome. I see how all your culture and taste and feeling urge you to go, and yet more what a reason in many ways your health supplies. And I declare the author of Zenobia and Probus and Julian ought to go to Rome! There is a fitness in it, and I trust it will come to pass. But you should not go alone. Every one wants company in such a tour,--that I know full well; but your health demands it. You must not be subject to sudden seizures in a strange city,--a stranger, alone. Your family never will consent to it, and I think never ought to. Do give up that idea entirely,--of going alone. Have patience. There will be somebody to go with next spring, or next summer. I would that I could go with you where you go, and lodge with you where you lodge. But somebody will go. Something better will turn up, at any rate, than to go alone. There are young men every year who want to go abroad in quest of art and beauty and culture, and to whom your company would be invaluable. I do not forget the difficulty about expense. But there are those who, like you, would be [202] glad to go directly by Marseilles or Leghorn. It is quite true that movement is the mischief with the purse.-Abiding in Rome or Florence, you can live for a dollar a day. A room, or two rooms (parlor and little sleeping-room), say near the Piazza di Spagna, or the Propaganda just by, can be hired, with bed, etc., all to be kept in order, for three or four pauls (thirty or forty cents, you know) a day. And you can breakfast at a colt; any time you fancy, while wandering about, for two pauls, and dine at a trattoria for from two to four pauls. I have more than once dined on a bowl of soup and bread and butter for two pauls. I hate heavy dinners. In Rome, one should always take a room in which the sun lies. "Where the sun comes, the doctor does n't," they say there. But you won't go before I come and see you and talk it all over with you. Don't fail to let me know if you set seriously about it, for I shall certainly come. The truth is, Airs. Ware should go with you. It is true the women are very precious when it comes to casting them up in a bill of expense, as in all things else. Does not that last clause save me, madam? And, madam dear, I want to talk with you about this project of William's, as much as I want to hear what he says. About the war, dear Gulielmus, and slavery, and almost everything else under heaven, I verily believe I think just as you do; so I need not write. And my hand is very tired. With ten thousand blessings on you, Yours ever, ORVILLE DEWEY. [203]To his Daughter Mary. SHEFFIELD, July 13, 1848.