FROM LOUIS LEVERETT, IN BOSTON, TO HARVARD TREMONT, IN PARIS.
November.
The scales have turned, my sympathetic Harvard, and the beam that has lifted you up has dropped me again on this terribly hard spot.
I am extremely sorry to have missed you in London, but I received your little note, and took due heed of your injunction to let you know how I got on.I don't get on at all, my dear Harvard--I am consumed with the love of the farther shore.I have been so long away that I have dropped out of my place in this little Boston world, and the shallow tides of New England life have closed over it.I am a stranger here, and I find it hard to believe that I ever was a native.It is very hard, very cold, very vacant.I think of your warm, rich Paris; I think of the Boulevard St.Michel on the mild spring evenings.I see the little corner by the window (of the Cafe de la Jeunesse)--where I used to sit; the doors are open, the soft deep breath of the great city comes in.It is brilliant, yet there is a kind of tone, of body, in the brightness; the mighty murmur of the ripest civilisation in the world comes in; the dear old peuple de Paris, the most interesting people in the world, pass by.I have a little book in my pocket; it is exquisitely printed, a modern Elzevir.It is a lyric cry from the heart of young France, and is full of the sentiment of form.There is no form here, dear Harvard; I had no idea how little form there was.I don't know what I shall do; I feel so und****d, so uncurtained, so uncushioned; Ifeel as if I were sitting in the centre of a mighty "reflector." Aterrible crude glare is over everything; the earth looks peeled and excoriated; the raw heavens seem to bleed with the quick hard light.
