Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and letters of Charles Sumner: volume 2

[88] address will be with Torlonia & Co.; and I should be much gratified by an assurance from you that we shall have peace between our two countries.

As ever, very sincerely yours,

Charles Sumner.

To George S. Hillard, Boston.

Paris, April 15, 1839.

dear Hillard,—Wherever I am, I find something to do more than I anticipated. I am here simply en route for Italy; but I could not be in this charming place without reviving some of my old acquaintances, and once more enjoying the splendid museums and galleries and sights. What a change from London! I was not aware that the atmosphere of London was so black and surcharged with dirt as I am now convinced it is by the contrast; the gilding, and silks, and furniture of the drawing-rooms—salons —are here so clear and bright, compared with those of London, where damp and dirt are constantly at work.

I came from Boulogne in the diligence with an English M. P., who did not know me personally, but who took me for an Englishman, and talked about the Americans; while I, enjoying it so much, forbore to undeceive him. I love Paris for its sights and gay scenes, and for its palaces for the people: its museums, stored in the halls of kings, which are gazed on by the humble, the lowly, and the poor. I again entered the Louvre with a throb, and rejoiced as I ascended its magnificent stairway, to think that it was no fee-possession, set apart to please the eyes of royalty. One day I have passed at Versailles, to revive the recollections of that place; and I stood with melancholy interest before that exquisite conception of Joan of Arc, by poor Mary of Orleans. This sculptor-princess I once saw. She seemed pretty, intelligent, and lively; and this statue is brimful of genius and thought. In that mighty palace of France, where it now is, there is nothing more touching. One night, I listened to Mademoiselle Rachel,— the new meteor that has illuminated the French drama. Without beauty, she has intense dignity, a fine voice, and great power of conceiving the meaning of the poet. Another night, I was charmed by the wonders of the French opera, the glories of the ballet, the dance and song; another, I was an indifferent listener to Grisi, Lablache, Tamburini, and the Italian corps. And then, society has spread its nets. I have found invitations when I did not wish them. Lord Granville has been very kind to me. Thorn's balls are truly brilliant, and his house is one of the finest I have ever seen. People with titles beg for invitations there. Before the last ball, Lord Brougham, who was in Paris, and of whom I have seen much, wrote me a note,—which I send you for an autograph,—asking me to get him an invitation! Said Brougham to me the other day, as we were walking arm-in-arm: ‘Ah! my dear friend, is this like Boston?’ Tell Cleveland and Longfellow that we were then in the shadow of Napoleon's Column, in the Place Vendome; and ask them whether they find any thing in Boston like that. Strange things I may tell of Brougham. I have talked with him much about our