Nor would any one, regarding the stout and comfortable Flemming, suspect what regrets and what philosophies were disputing possession of his interior.  For my external arrangements, I flatter myself that I have shaped them in tolerable taste.

My choice of the French capital I need not defend to any of my American readers.  To all of you this consummation is simply a matter of ability.  I heartily despise, as I always did, all mere pamperings of physical convenience.  Still, for some who retain some sympathy with the Paul Flemming of aforetime, it may be worth while to mention the particular physical conveniencies my soul contemns.  I inhabit, and have done so for eight years at least, a neat little residence of the kind styled “between court and garden,” and lying on the utmost permissible circumference of the American quarter in Paris—­say on the hither side of Passy.  For nearly the same period I have had in lease a comical box at Marly, whither I repair every summer.  My town-quarters, having been furnished by an artist, gave me small pains.  The whole interior is like a suite of rooms in the Hotel Cluny.  The only trouble was in bringing up the cellar to the quality I desired and in selecting domestics—­points on which, though careless of worldly comfort in general, I own I am somewhat particular.

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No gentleman valets for me—­rude creatures presuming to outdress their masters.  What I wanted was the Corporal Trim style of thing—­bald, faithful, ancient retainer.  After a world of vexation I succeeded in finding an artless couple, who agreed for a stipulation to sigh when I spoke of my grandfather before my guests, and to have been brought up in the family.

But I am wandering, and neglecting the true vein of sentiment which so abounds in my heart.  All my pleasure is still in mournful contemplation, but I have learned that the feelings are most refined when freed from low cares and personal discomforts.  I was going to cite a letter I wrote to my oldest friend, the baron of Hohenfels.  It was sketched out first in verse, but in that form was a failure: 

* * * * *

“15th march.

“The snow-white clouds beyond my window are piled up like Alps.  The shades of B. Franklin and W. Tell seem to walk together on those Elysian Fields; for it was here (or sufficiently nigh for the purpose) that in days gone by our pure patriot dwelt and flirted with Madame Helvetius; and yonder clouds so much resemble the snowy Alps that they remind me irresistibly of the Swiss.  Noble examples of a high purpose and a fixed will!  Do B. and W. not move, Hyperion-like, on high?  Were they not, likewise, sons of Heaven and Earth?

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