a certain expression in her eye, as if it were seeking for something, “something a long, long way off,” even in her apparently dissipated worldly life; in a word, I had liked her, had a deep interest in her—now I loved her. She is one of the birds of Paradise which skims over the world without soiling its wings with its dust. Anne Lynch, with her individuality and her position in society, is one of the peculiar figures of the New World.
The evening and night parties which I see here are, for the rest, not to compare with the most beautiful of the kind which I have seen in Sweden and Denmark. Here there is not space nor yet flowers enough, nor air enough. Above everything, I lack costume, character in dress. The ladies are handsome, are well and tastefully dressed, but they are too much like one another. The gentlemen are all dressed alike. This cannot here be otherwise, and it is good and right at the bottom. But it is not good for picturesque effect. Nor does it seem to me that the mental individuality is sufficiently marked to produce an outward impression. But to this subject I must return.
At the opera this evening I saw a large and handsome building; splendid toilettes in the boxes, and on the stage a prima donna, as Desdemona, against whom I have nothing to object, excepting that she could love such a disagreeable Othello. The music, the singing, and the scenery, all tolerably good (with the exception of Othello), but nothing very good. One might say, ce n'est pas ça! but there was nothing which would make one think “C'est ça!” like a tone, a glance, a gesture of Jenny Lind.
A lecture was delivered last Sunday evening, in the same hall where I had heard Channing, on Christian Socialism, by Mr. Henry James, a wealthy, and, as it is said, a good man. His doctrine was that which recognises no right but that of involuntary attraction,
