of her outline, and she bears marks of race, that will grow stronger every year, and make her ugly at last. Still it will be a grandiose, gypsy, or rather Sibylline ugliness, well adapted to the expression of some tragic parts. Only it seems as if she could not live long; she expends force enough upon a part to furnish out a dozen common lives.
TO R. W. E.
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
