Now, dear M., for a comfortable Sunday afternoon chat with you, after a long—it seems to me a very long—silence. I’ve just replenished my body with a comfortable portion of our regular Sunday dinner—viz. ham, fowl, sweet potatoes, and macaroni—of which last I’ve grown particularly fond, and now, wrapped in my blanket-shawl, I sit with my feet on the fender, over the embers of the parlour fire, and, as the girls are at church and only good Miss B. in the room, I hope for a nice long quiet time. But I must tell you of a great musical treat I’ve had, really the highest pleasure in that way that I ever remember; no less than two concerts by Herz and Sivori. I never have been so affected by music before; yet the first concert made me sad, homesick, and discontented. I felt as I do after reading a powerful novel of Bulwer’s. It was Sivori’s violin that produced so strange an effect. Herz was a smooth, brilliant pianoforte player, with considerable superficial talent, nothing more; but Sivori has genius. His playing bewildered me; I did not understand it. It seemed to me like a chaos that might become a world of beauty could I only find the word that should reduce it to order. I went home unhappy and indignant at being obliged to pass life in such a stupid place, amongst such stupid people, where is neither beauty, nor intelligence, nor goodness. The next concert it went better with me. I sat near the platform immediately in front of Sivori, and examined his countenance, which certainly renders his performance clearer. He is very small, his head large for his body, a fine forehead, grand eyes, a stiff, sober manner, and occasional half-suppressed smile that reminded me continually of Ellery Channing. The first piece, ‘Il Campanello’ of Paganini, was a gem; the solemn, subduing _adagio_, with a wild, striving conclusion, and the little clear silver bell coming in continually, like an angel’s voice in the conflict of good and bad spirits. Then his prayer from ‘Moïse,’ performed on one string, was the most devout music I ever listened to. I felt as if I were worshipping in an old cathedral at twilight, and I shut my eyes not to destroy the illusion by the expressionless concert-room and faces all round. The duet between Herz and Sivori was grand, both parts were so perfect. I went to the concert with a prejudice against Herz, from knowing his very bad moral character; but his playing is very brilliant, though he is far from being a De Meyer. He has the most self-satisfied expression in his mouth, which, as a gentleman remarked, ‘seems to be going to eat his ears,’ it is so large. He was recalled after one of his pieces, and said, smiling, ‘I will play you a piece which I composed, since I am in Charleston.