ning I breakfasted with Rogers,—old Rogers, as he is called.
It was delightful to listen to his wisdom-dropping voice; but I started when he said Manzoni's Promessi Sposi is worth ten of Scott's novels.
said I. Well, thirty, said the wise old man; I only said ten for fear of shocking you.
And this is the judgment of one of the ancient friends of Sir Walter Scott.
Ah! I remember well the pleasure I had from that book.
I read a copy belonging to you, on the road from Rome to Florence, and I cried sincerely over many of the scenes.
At Heidelberg I passed a sad day, after I read of the loss of the Lexington.
I have read Longfellow's Hyperion, and am in love with it. I only wish that there were more of it. The character of Jean Paul is wunderschon. I hope to induce somebody to review it here.
But in this immensity of London everybody seems engaged,—every moment of the present and future occupied; so that I fear I may not succeed.
Sir Charles Vaughan speaks of your kind