I thanked her gratefully, and as I knew I could not please her better than by showing the interest I took in her menagerie, I inquired the name of a lady who was talking with a good deal of vehemence at the opposite side of the room. "Oh! that's a person that I always call my '_dame de l'Empire_.' Her husband was one of Napoleon's creations; and Josephine used to amuse herself without ceasing by making her talk--her language and accent are _impayables_!" "And that pretty woman in the corner?" "Ah! ... she is charming!... It is Madame V----, daughter of the celebrated Vicomte de ----, so devoted, you know, to the royal cause. But she is lately married to one of the present ministers--quite a love-match; which is an innovation, by the way, more hard to pardon in France than the introduction of a new dynasty. Mais c'est égal--they are all very good friends again.... Now, tell me whom I shall introduce to you?" I selected the heroine of the love-match; who was not only one of the prettiest creatures I ever saw, but so lively, intelligent, and agreeable, that I have seldom passed a pleasanter hour than that which followed the introduction. The whole of this heterogeneous party seemed to mix together with the greatest harmony; the only cold glance I saw given being from the gentleman designated as "King Philippe's right hand," towards the tall republican deputy of whose funeral my friend had predicted such honours. The _dame de l'Empire_ was indulging in a lively flirtation with one of the peers _sans tache_; and I saw the fingers of the exemplary Catholic, who was going to dine with King Philippe, in the _tabatière_ of the celebrated atheist. I then remembered that this was one of the _soirées antithestiques_ so much in fashion. LETTER XXVIII. New Publications.--M. de Lamartine's "Souvenirs, Impressions, Pensées, et Paysages."--Tocqueville and Beaumont.--New American regulation.--M. Scribe.--Madame Tastu.--Reception of different Writers in society. Though among the new publications sent to me for perusal I have found much to fatigue and disgust me, as must indeed be inevitable for any one accustomed for some scores of years to nourish the heart and head with the literature of the "_bon vieux temps_"--which means, in modern phrase, everything musty, rusty, rococo, and forgotten,--I have yet found some volumes which have delighted me greatly. M. de Lamartine's "Souvenirs, Impressions, Pensées, et Paysages" in the East, is a work which appears to me to stand solitary and alone in the world of letters. There is certainly nothing like it, and very little that can equal it, in my estimation, either as a collection of written landscapes or as a memorial of poetical feeling, just sentiment, and refined taste.