persons have each their friends and adherents, but the general voice seems to be in her favour. I can very well believe that Fanny Kemble would not be the most excellent nor the most tractable of wives. But why then did he so resolutely endeavour to win her? He knew beforehand her temper and her anti-slavery sympathies, for she is too truthful to have concealed anything. Extraordinary in the meantime is that sort of magnetic power which this woman, so unfeminine in many respects, exercises upon a great number of men. For my part—to use the words of one of her friends—I am glad that there is one Fanny Kemble in the world, but I do not wish that there should be two.
The last evening party at which I was present at Boston was at the Mayor's, Mr. Q., who belongs to one of the oldest families in Massachusetts. The last few days before my departure were full of occupation, and the last of all, on which I had to pack, to write many letters, to make calls and to receive visits at the latest moment, threw me again into my wretched and feverish state. But when it was over, that last day of my stay in Boston, with its various scenes, its fatigues, and its queerness, and with it a section—and one heavy enough—of my life in the New World, and when late in the evening young V. read to me some chapters in the Gospel of St. John, then was it good, then was it beautiful and pleasant. And if even at that time the fountain of tears was unsealed, it was from a deep sense of gratitude. For was not that season of sickness and depression over; and had I not through it learned to know and to love one of the best and the noblest of men, my good physician and friend, Dr. O.; and had become acquainted with a glorious remedy both for you and for myself? And I now also understood the sufferings of nervous patients. I had never had experience of such myself, and had been inclined to be impatient towards them. I shall now do better.
