Paris, Jan. 18, 1847.—­I can hardly tell you what a fever consumes me, from sense of the brevity of my time and opportunity.  Here I cannot sleep at night, because I have been able to do so little in the day.  Constantly I try to calm my mind into content with small achievements, but it is difficult.  You will say, it is not so mightily worth knowing, after all, this picture and natural history of Europe.  Very true; but I am so constituted that it pains me to come away, having touched only the glass over the picture.

I am assiduous daily at the Academy lectures, picture galleries, Chamber of Deputies,—­last week, at the court and court ball.  So far as my previous preparation enabled me, I get something from all these brilliant shows,—­thoughts, images, fresh impulse.  But I need, to initiate me into various little secrets of the place and time,—­necessary for me to look at things to my satisfaction,—­some friend, such as I do not find here.  My steps have not been fortunate in Paris, as they were in England.  No doubt, the person exists here, whose aid I want; indeed, I feel that it is so; but we do not meet, and the time draws near for me to depart.

French people I find slippery, as they do not know exactly what to make of me, the rather as I have not the command of their language. I see them, their brilliancy, grace, and variety, the thousand slight refinements of their speech and manner, but cannot meet them in their way.  My French teacher says, I speak and act like an Italian, and I hope, in Italy, I shall find myself more at home.

I had, the other day, the luck to be introduced to Beranger, who is the only person beside George Sand I cared very particularly to see here.  I went to call on La Mennais, to whom I had a letter.  I found him in a little study; his secretary was writing in a large room through which I passed.  With him was a somewhat citizen-looking, but vivacious elderly man, whom I was, at first, sorry to see, having wished for half an hour’s undisturbed visit to the Apostle of Democracy.  But those feelings were quickly displaced by joy, when he named to me the great national lyrist of France, the great Beranger.  I had not expected to see him at all, for he is not to be seen in any show place; he lives in the hearts of the people, and needs no homage from their eyes.  I was very happy, in that little study, in the presence of these two men, whose influence has been so real and so great.  Beranger has been much to me,—­his wit, his pathos, and exquisite lyric grace.  I have not received influence from La Mennais, but I see well what he has been, and is, to Europe.

TO LA MENNAIS.

Monsieur:—­