Paris, Sunday night, July 2, 1860.

I received your letter this morning. The rough sea of which you speak diminishes somewhat my regret for remaining in Paris. It is incredible, however, that this deuced weather should last forever, notwithstanding the sunspots mentioned in the newspapers.

Our session drags out indefinitely, which makes me furious. I have tried to find an excuse to escape, but owing to my supreme importance, which holds me tied here, it is extremely difficult to accomplish. This does not mean that I am not ready at any moment to travel a hundred leagues to dine with you, if I should receive such an invitation, and if some one cared to wait for me. This is a humble suggestion which I take the liberty to make you.

By leaving town so early you will lose a wonderful spectacle, that of observing me pass in fiocchi, and black gloves, down the rue de Rivoli, in the midst of the admiring populace.[23] I do not know how many vacancies this ceremonial will cause in our ranks, but I have grave fears that it will prove advantageous to the undertakers. Thirty thousand persons came yesterday to sprinkle themselves with holy water, and more came to-day; a good demonstration of the simplicity of this magnanimous nation! It is more stupid, even, than is supposed, which is saying a great deal.

The Orleanists pretend that M. BrÉnier was murdered by an angry husband, which, considering the amplitude of his abdomen, seems to me scarcely probable. It is more reasonable to suppose that the lazzaroni took this means of avenging their ill-used king. The Liberals, in retaliation, have assassinated the police commissioners, which, of course, has been of great advantage to M. BrÉnier.

The Italians of the north have none of the emotionalism of the Neapolitans. They have common-sense and theological minds, as Stendhal said, while the Neapolitans are only ill-trained, twelve-year-old children. We shall see, probably, some fine examples of this in the fall, for it looks as if I should go there, instead of to Africa.

I am waiting to hear that your salon is full of country curiosities, and that you yourself are wearing a flowered morning-gown and Turkish slippers. You will think longingly of the muddy streets of Paris. However, I do not care to refer again to your expedition. Many things may occur to cause you to change your plans. You are acquainted with mine. I shall remain at the British Museum until the end of July, after which I shall spend a few days at Bath, and then go to Scotland, where I shall stay the month of September awaiting an invitation from you. Good-bye.