I heard an anecdote of her to-day from an authority which leaves no doubt of its truth.  Having commanded a brilliant fete, a heavy fall of snow drew from one of her courtiers a remark that the extreme cold would impede the pleasure of the guests, who would suffer from it in coming and departing, “True,” replied the Duchesse; “but if they in comfortable carriages, and enveloped in furs and cashmeres, can suffer from the severity of the weather, what must the poor endure?” And she instantly ordered a large sum of money to be forthwith distributed, to supply fuel to the indigent, saying—­“While I dance, I shall have the pleasure of thinking the poor are not without the means of warmth.”

Received a long and delightful letter from Walter Savage Landor.  His is one of the most original minds I have ever encountered, and is joined to one of the finest natures.  Living in the delightful solitude he has chosen near Florence, his time is passed in reading, reflecting, and writing; a life so blameless and so happy, that the philosophers of old, with whose thoughts his mind is so richly imbued, might, if envy could enter into such hearts, entertain it towards him.

Landor is a happy example of the effect of retirement on a great mind.  Free from the interruptions which, if they harass not, at least impede the continuous flow of thought in those who live much in society, his mind has developed itself boldly, and acquired a vigour at which, perhaps, it might never have arrived, had he been compelled to live in a crowded city, chafed by the contact with minds of an inferior calibre.

The Imaginary Conversations could never have been written amid the vexatious interruptions incidental to one mingling much in the scenes of busy life; for the voices of the sages of old with whom, beneath his own vines, Landor loves to commune, would have been inaudible in the turmoil of a populous town, and their secrets would not have been revealed to him.  The friction of society may animate the man of talent into its exercise, but I am persuaded that solitude is essential to the perfect developement of genius.

A letter from Sir William Gell, and, like all his letters, very amusing.  Yet how different from Landor’s!  Both written beneath the sunny sky of Italy, both scholars, and nearly of the same age, nevertheless, how widely different are their letters!

Gell’s filled with lively and comic details of persons, seldom fail to make me laugh; Landor’s, wholly devoted to literary subjects, set me thinking.  Cell would die of ennui in the solitude Landor has selected; Landor would be chafed into irritation in the constant routine of visiting and dining-out in which Gell finds amusement.  But here am I attempting to draw a parallel where none can be established, for Landor is a man of genius, Gell a man of talent.

Was at the Opera last night, and saw the Duc d’Orleans there with his family.  They are a fine-looking flock, male and female, and looked as happy as they are said to be.