Paris, Thursday, July 12, 1860.

Fine weather has at last come to stay. From all indications, I shall leave the beginning of next week. If you have any idea of visiting Lady —— at the sea-shore early in August, I hope that you will let me know of it. Rural England must be very lovely, I fancy, just at this time, and you would enjoy spending a few days with your friend, doing nothing at all, watching the sea and drinking tea beside the open windows. I am still feeling ill. Yesterday especially, I was very uncomfortable. I have my new friend, however, to entertain me. It is an owl I am raising, and which has taken a fancy to me. After dinner I open his cage door and he flies about in my room. For want of small birds, he has learned to catch flies very skilfully. His physiognomy is extremely comical, and reminds me of self-important people, with his ultra-serious manner and expression.

The funeral was a terrible ordeal. It took us an hour and three-quarters to go from the Palais-Royal to the Invalides. Then there was mass, followed by an oration by the AbbÉ Coeur, who lauded the principles of ‘89, saying at the same time that our soldiers were ready to sacrifice their lives in the defence of the pope. He went so far as to say that the first Napoleon did not love war, and was always forced into it for self-defence. The most imposing part of the ceremony was a De Profundis, sung in the vaults that you know, and which came to us through a drapery of black crÊpe separating us from the tomb. It seems to me that if I were a musician I should profit by the admirable effect produced on tone quality by the use of crÊpe, for a grand spectacular opera.

No one is left in Paris. We go at night to the Champs-ÉlysÉes to hear Musard’s music, and to see the fine ladies and the lorettes, all there together and difficult to distinguish. We go also to the circus to see the trained dogs roll a ball on an inclined plane, jumping up after it. This age is losing all sort of taste for intellectual amusements.

Have you read the book I lent you, and was it interesting? The History of Madame de la Guette pleased me more than The Holland Jewess, in which there were things that would have shocked you.

I have been asked to suggest an English novel for a sick man who can read nothing else. Perhaps you may be able to tell me of one. I have just completed a lengthy report on the Library of Paris. It is this, I imagine, that has made me so ill. I waste my time bothering with things in which I am not interested, and business which belongs to others is piled on my shoulders. I have at times wished to write a novel before my death, but sometimes my courage fails me, and again, when I am in the mood, some stupid administrative affairs are given me to attend to. I shall write to you before leaving.... Good-bye....