able weather! Since the day when I last wrote, and when the weather had changed from warm to bitterly cold, it has rained incessantly, and been cold and cheerless with a perseverance such as I scarcely ever saw before. Not a blue speck in the heavens, not a sunbeam—perpetual fog, sleet and grey cold. To-day, for the first time, it has cleared up, and seems as if it would again become pleasant. This weather has caused many excursions, both within and out of the city, to be deferred. But how thankful I am for my quiet and pleasant home daring this time! Mr. and Mrs. C. are kind, gentle, and very quiet people, and that order and comfort which is a distinguishing feature of American homes, prevails in their house. Anne W. is full of life and quiet fire, imprisoned within her, as in the diamond; she is an intellectual and interesting being, who affords me great pleasure, from the originality of her character, and her reading aloud in the evening. In this way she has made me acquainted with various English poets hitherto almost unknown to me. It has been a great pleasure to me to hear her read Shelley's magnificent poem, “Prometheus Unbound,” which would be the most glorious poem of the age if its conclusion had been equal to its opening scenes. But this is stranded on a thread-bare morality. I have also enjoyed the reading of Browning's poems and dramatic pieces, as well as some by Elizabeth Barrett, the wife of Browning. Browning does not appear to me great as an artist. There is a deficiency of strength and coherence in his compositions. But a something singularly grand and pure in feeling and tendency gladdens and warms the heart. A spirit of noble, self-sufficing heroism permeates his poems. One feels oneself refreshed as by the waftings of a something divinely great.
I spent one evening with Mr. and Mrs. D., friends of Mr. Lerner H., and heard good music, well played by amateur musicians, gentlemen and ladies of the Northern States. Another evening I attended the Opera, where I
