My steps have not been fortunate
in Paris, as they were in England. No doubt, the person exists here,
whose aid I want; indeed, I feel that it is so; but we do not meet,
and the time draws near for me to depart.
French people I find slippery, as they do not know exactly what to
make of me, the rather as I have not the command of their language.
_I_ see _them_, their brilliancy, grace, and variety, the thousand
slight refinements of their speech and manner, but cannot meet them
in their way. My French teacher says, I speak and act like an Italian,
and I hope, in Italy, I shall find myself more at home.
I had, the other day, the luck to be introduced to Beranger, who is
the only person beside George Sand I cared very particularly to see
here. I went to call on La Mennais, to whom I had a letter. I found
him in a little study; his secretary was writing in a large room
through which I passed. With him was a somewhat citizen-looking, but
vivacious elderly man, whom I was, at first, sorry to see, having
wished for half an hour's undisturbed visit to the Apostle of
Democracy. But those feelings were quickly displaced by joy, when he
named to me the great national lyrist of France, the great Beranger.
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