always have been the first nation of the earth. Lerminier's manner is very brilliant and energetic. It is not pure, and he abounds in words; but I must confess that his lecture this morning presented an instructive view, which riveted the attention of a large audience. Passed through the Place de la Bastille; saw Napoleon's huge elephant; the foundation for the monument to the victims of July; the Boulevard du Temple; and the house, No. 50, from which Fieschi's infernal machine was directed against the king. Spent a quiet evening chez moi.
Paris, March 21, 1838.my dear George,—I have received all your letters, and, did you know the thrill with which I opened them, you would not write grudgingly. Give me a glass of water from the New England springs, I say, amidst the plenty of all kinds which surrounds me. You do not know what it is to be in a foreign land, where the sounds which salute you are of a strange tongue, and the voices of friends are not heard. With what zealous attention do I devour every word! And when I have read the letter several times I strive again to alchemize from its exhausted page some new meaning,—to drain from it another drop of its precious wine.1 . . . On my return to the city from Versailles, I found an invitation to a soiree for the same evening. I went and enjoyed a most delicious private concert, where there was the choicest music of the voice, the piano, the harp, and the violin, by the most brilliant performers. Adelaide Kemble,2 the sister of Fanny, was there. She has appeared in public but once; and that was some time ago, when her friends deemed it advisable to withdraw her. She sang, another playing the accompaniment; and then she took her place at the piano, and played and sang at the same time. Of course it was Italian music. You know that I am no judge of music, but still I have a heart and pulses which throb under manifestations of human feeling. Her music affected me deeply, and I cannot describe to you how much impressed was the beautiful and crowded circle by which she was surrounded, who interrupted her at every pause by a gush of ‘bravas.’ After her two songs she soon retired. In her singing she had great force, but I thought lacked variety and softness. She was a singing Fanny Kemble. There was no American but myself at the soiree, and Miss Kemble will not appear in public for some time yet. She goes forthwith to Italy to continue her training. . . Consider that my time is all employed from seven o'clock in the morning till twelve or one at night, and then give me a generous return for this letter. I shall not be in London till May. Tell Cushing to write me there. How often do I think of all of you,