But I probably shall have an opportunity of retracting on Tuesday.
To-night I go to another musical party at Marshall's, the late M.P.
for Yorkshire.

Everybody is talking of Paganini and his violin.

The man seems to be a miracle.

The newspapers say that long streamy flakes of music fall from his string, interspersed with luminous points of sound which ascend the air and appear like stars.

This eloquence is quite beyond me.
Ever yours T.B.M.
London: May 28, 1831.
My dear Hannah,--More gaieties and music-parties; not so fertile of adventures as that memorable masquerade whence Harriet Byron was carried away; but still I hope that the narrative of what passed there will gratify "the venerable circle." Yesterday I dressed, called a cab, and was whisked away to Hill Street.