There is something, I am inclined to think, in the nature of the Parisians that enables them to support noise better than we can,--nay, not only to support, but even to like it.
I received an edition of the works of L.E.L.yesterday from London.

She is a charming poetess, full of imagination and fancy, dazzling one moment by the brilliancy of her flights, and the next touching the heart by some stroke of pathos.

How Byron would have admired her genius, for it bears the stamp of being influenced no less by a graceful and fertile fancy than by a deep sensibility, and the union of the two gives a peculiar charm to her poems.
Drove to the Bois de Boulogne to-day, with the Comtesse d'O----, I know no such brilliant talker as she is.

No matter what may be the subject of conversation, her wit flashes brightly on all, and without the slightest appearance of effort or pretension.

She speaks from a mind overflowing with general information, made available by a retentive memory, a ready wit, and in exhaustible good spirits.
Letters from dear Italy.