George Ticknor, Life, letters and journals of George Ticknor
George Hillard, Ed.

[103] being surprised that an American should inquire for it, Fauriel sent me last evening a copy of it, with a very civil note. Of course I called on him to-day and delivered him a letter of introduction which Schlegel had given me at Bonn. I found him a man above sixty years old, I should think, living in the Faubourg St. Germain, in a quiet and modest manner, and surrounded with a library of extremely curious books, in the early literature of France, Germany, Spain, and Provence. His conversation was more accurate and careful than is commonly found in his countrymen, but still lively; and his knowledge in early Spanish literature, on which we chiefly talked, is such as I have not found before in Europe. It exceeded that of Wolf at Vienna, as much as his years do, and gave me great pleasure.

October 1.—I went this morning to see Camillo Ugoni, the author of the ‘History of Italian Literature in the Eighteenth Century,’ in order to make some inquiries of him about Count Confalonieri, who has lately been in Paris, and been sent away by the Police.¹ . . . Ugoni I found a pleasant Italian, about sixty years old, with the apparatus of a man of letters about him; but I talked with him only concerning Confalonieri, whose intimate friend he is, and, I believe, also a fellow-sufferer in exile from political causes.

On my return home I found all Paris in motion in the upper part of the city, chiefly with a fete at the Gardens of Tivoli, but partly, also, with the St. Germain Railroad. It looked very little like Sunday. Indeed, so few shops are shut, and all works—even those for the government—are so diligently carried on, that I cannot distinguish Sunday from other days.

We attended service at the Oratoire, where Monod, son of the person who was a preacher there twenty years ago, officiated. The sermon was thoroughly Calvinistic. He seemed serious and earnest. . . .

October 5.—The Duke and Duchess de Broglie being announced in the papers as having come to town, I went to see them this morning, and I am glad I did; they received me as an old friend,—as if it were but a short time since I was last in their saloon. But they are, of course, a good deal altered. The Duke, who is above fifty, shows that he has had cares upon him, and that he has not been Prime Minister with impunity; but still he has preserved his natural and original manner, a singular mixture of pride, warmheartedness, and modesty, which gives him a slight air of embarrassment, and makes him blush a little whenever he expresses a strong or decided opinion. Mad. de Broglie is just forty years old, but does not