telligences of the age, and esteemed his work on
"The Constitution of Man" as one of the greatest of human productions.

When, in the spring of 1844, I left Rome, in company with my husband, my
sisters, and my baby, it seemed like returning to the living world after
a long separation from it. In spite of all its attractions, I was glad
to stand once more face to face with the belongings of my own time.

We journeyed first to Naples, which I saw with delight, thence by
steamer to Marseilles, and by river boat and diligence to Paris.

My husband's love of the unusual must, I think, have prompted him to
secure passage for our party on board the little steamer which carried
us well on our way to Paris. Its small cabin was without sleeping
accommodations of any kind. As the boat always remained in some port
overnight, Dr. Howe found it possible to hire mattresses for us, which,
alas, were taken away at daybreak, when our journey was resumed.

Of the places visited on our way I will mention only Avignon, a city of
great historic interest, retaining little in the present day to remind
the traveler of its former importance. My husband here found a bricabrac
shop, containing much curious furniture of ancient date. Among its
contents were two cabinets of carved wood, which so fascinated him that,
finding himself unable to decide in favor of either, he concluded to
purchase both of them. The dealer of whom he bought them promised to
have them packed so solidly that they might be thrown out of an upper
window without sustaining any injury, adding, "Et de plus, j'ecrirai la
dessus 'tres fragile'" (And in addition, I will mark it "very fragile"),
which amused my husband. He had justified this purchase to me by
reminding me that we should presently have our house to furnish. Indeed,
the two cabinets proved an excellent investment, and are as handsome as
ever, after much wear and tear of other household goods.

We made some stay in Paris, of which city I have chronicled elsewhere my
first impressions. Among these was the pain of hearing a lecture from
Philarete Chasles, in which he spoke most disparagingly of American
literature, and of our country in general. He said that we had
contributed nothing of value to the world of letters. Yet we had already
given it the writings of Irving, Hawthorne, Emerson, Longfellow, Bryant,
and Poe. It is true that these authors were little, if at all, known in
France at that time; but the speaker, p