And the beds, chairs, and sofas are perfect things.
But the climate is not perfect, it seems, for we have had very cold weather the last ten days, and I am a prisoner as usual.

Our friends swear to us that it is exceptional weather and that it will be warmer presently, and I listen with a sort of 'doubtful doubt' worthy of a metaphysician.

It is some comfort to hear that it's below zero in London meanwhile, and that Scotland stands eight feet deep in snow.
We have a letter for George Sand (directed _a Madame George Sand_) from Mazzini, and we hear that she is to be in Paris within twelve days.

Then we must make a rush and present it, for her stay here is not likely to be long, and I would not miss seeing her for a great deal, though I have not read one of her late dramas, and only by faith understand that her wonderful genius has conquered new kingdoms.

Her last romance, 'Le Chateau des Deserts,' is treated disdainfully in the 'Athenaeum.' I have not read _that_ even, but Mr.Chorley is apt to be cold towards French writers and I don't expect his judgment as final therefore.