I can get all the Boston culture I want when I go back, if I carry out my plan, my heart’s secret, of going there to reside. I ought to direct all my efforts to European culture now, so as to keep Boston to finish off. But it seems as if I couldn’t help taking a peep now and then in advance—with a real Bostonian. I don’t know when I may meet one again; but if there are many others like Mr. Leverett there I shall be certain not to lack when I carry out my dream. He’s just as full of culture as he can live. But it seems strange how many different sorts there are. There are two of the English who I suppose are very cultivated too; but it doesn’t seem as if I could enter into theirs so easily, though I try all I can. I do love their way of speaking, and sometimes I feel almost as if it would be right to give up going for French and just try to get the hang of English as these people have got it. It doesn’t come out in the things they say so much, though these are often rather curious, but in the sweet way they say them and in their kind of making so much, such an easy lovely effect, of saying almost anything. It seems as if they must try a good deal to sound like that; but these English who are here don’t seem to try at all, either to speak or do anything else. They’re a young lady and her brother, who belong, I believe, to some noble family. I’ve had a good deal of intercourse with them, because I’ve felt more free to talk to them than to the Americans—on account of the language. They often don’t understand mine, and then it’s as if I had to learn theirs to explain.