rs soon carry through the world. Indeed, the modesty of
Sismondi and his wife is one of the things in them that has most struck
me. Mme. S. said yesterday, in speaking of the commencement of your
friendship, that "Sismondi was so grateful to her for finding him out."
And Sismondi, when I saw him on my arrival, in expressing to me his
regret and concern that it was so long since he had heard from you, said
he knew that you had many letters to write, etc.; as if that could be
the reason why you did not write to him! Well, there is more modesty in
the world than we think, I verily believe. [173]. . . Speaking of her
husband, Mme. S. said: "Of his acquisitions and powers, I say nothing;
but it was such a heart,--there never was such a heart!"

I ought to add, while speaking of Mme. S., since we owe it all to you,
that her reception of us was the kindest possible. She brought us all,
children and all, to her house immediately to pass an evening, and
indeed took all our hearts by storm,--if that can be said of a creature
so gentle and modest. . . .

I wrote the foregoing this morning. At dinner-time your letter of June
12 came, which, with several others, has so turned my head, that I don't
know whether it is morning or afternoon. We are conscious, "at each
remove," of dragging "the lengthening chain," but we do not know exactly
how heavy or how strong it is, till some one lays a hand on the other
end. The lightest pressure there!--you know how it is when some one
steps on the end of a long string which a boy draws after him. God bless
you!--it was in my heart to say no less,--for thinking it is a long
time. . . . We read and walk and talk and laugh, and sometimes sigh.
Switzerland has no remedy against that. Of myself I have nothing to say
that is worth the saying. I am improving somewhat, but I am suffering
much and almost continually, and as yet I recover no energy for work.

To Rev. Henry W Bellows.

FLORENCE, ITALY, Nov. 24, 1842.

. . . It is now a fortnight or more since the overwhelming news came to
us of the death of Channing. During this time my mind has been passing
through steps of gradual approximation to the reality, but never did
it [174] find, or else voluntarily interpose, so many barriers between
itself and reality as in this most deplorable event. There are losses
which I should more acutely feel than the loss of Channing; because
friendship with him lacked, I imagine, in all who enjoyed it, those
litt