I have never lost any opportunity of improvement in my profession—­I must confess that I still retain the conviction that the celebrated Doctor P——­ would have had little chance, at least for many years, of acquiring either fame or wealth, had he not employed the means I have confessed to you, ladies.”

I cannot do justice to this spirituel old man’s mode of telling the story, or describe the finesse of his arch smile while recounting it.

Mr. P.C.  Scarlett, a son of our excellent and valued friend Sir James Scarlett[3], dined here yesterday.  He is a fine young man, clever, well-informed, and amiable, with the same benignant countenance and urbanity of manner that are so remarkable in his father.

I remember how much struck I was with Sir James Scarlett’s countenance when he was first presented to me.  It has in it such a happy mixture of sparkling intelligence and good-nature that I was immediately pleased with him, even before I had an opportunity of knowing the rare and excellent qualities for which he is distinguished, and the treasures of knowledge with which his mind is stored.

I have seldom met any man so well versed in literature as Sir James Scarlett, or with a more refined taste for it; and when one reflects on the arduous duties of his profession—­duties which he has ever fulfilled with such credit to himself and advantage to others—­it seems little short of miraculous how he could have found time to have made himself so intimately acquainted, not only with the classics, but with all the elegant literature of England and France.

How many pleasant days have I passed in the society of Lord Erskine and Sir James Scarlett!  Poor Lord Erskine! never more shall I hear your eloquent tongue utter bons mots in which wit sparkled, but ill-nature never appeared; nor see your luminous eyes flashing with joyousness, as when, surrounded by friends at the festive board, you rendered the banquet indeed “the feast of reason and the flow of soul!”

Mr. H——­ B——­ dined here yesterday, and he talked over the pleasant days we had passed in Italy.  He is an excellent specimen of the young men of the present day.  Well-informed, and with a mind highly cultivated, he has travelled much in other countries, without losing any of the good qualities and habits peculiar to his own.

Went to the Theatre Italien, last night, and heard Madame Malibran sing for the first time.  Her personation of “Desdemona” is exquisite, and the thrilling tones of her voice were in perfect harmony with the deep sensibility she evinced in every look and movement.

I have heard no singer to please me comparable to Malibran:  there is something positively electrical in the effect she produces on my feelings.  Her acting is as original as it is effective; Passion and Nature are her guides, and she abandons herself to them con amore.

The only defect I can discover in her singing is an excess of fiorituri, that sometimes destroys the vraisemblance of the role she is enacting, and makes one think more of the wonderful singer than of “Desdemona.”  This defect, however, is atoned for by the bursts of passion into which her powerful voice breaks when some deep emotion is to be expressed, and the accomplished singer is forgotten in the impassioned “Desdemona.”