Bath, Wednesday night, August 9, 1860.

I bought you a blue veil before leaving London. I intended to write to you, but had so many commissions to do for my minister, that it would have been on your part an act of charity to come to help me attend to them. I have selected gowns, hats, and ribbons, all of the most fantastic styles I could find. I fear the dogs on the streets of Paris will run after the unfortunate creatures who wear these beautiful objects of my choice.

I am sorry to see you so opposed to a trip to England while I am here. The idea does not strike you. You may be sure that there are no heaths and mountains I should not abandon with delight to see you before your departure. Let us have at least one happy memory ere we leave each other for so long.

The life I have led for a week would make a thorough-bred horse short-winded, running around all day, shopping and visiting; dining out at night with the nabobs, where I always found the same dishes and almost the same faces. I scarcely knew the names of my hosts, and when they are in white cravats and evening clothes, all Englishmen resemble one another.

We are cordially detested here, and feared even more. Nothing is more amusing than their mistrust of us, which they do not take the trouble to conceal. The volunteers are more stupid even than our National Guard in 1830, because everything in this country is taken with a seriousness found nowhere else. I know a gallant man seventy-five who exercises every day in Zouave costume.

The Ministry is weak and does not know what it wants, and the opposition is no better off; but all, great and small, agree in their belief that we desire to take all we can get. At the same time, every one believes that war will be impossible so long as there is no question of annexing the three kingdoms. I was not specially pleased with the letter of the emperor to M. de Persigny. It would have been better, it seems to me, to say nothing at all, or else to have said merely what I repeat every day, that they are fools.

I advise you to write to me immediately, for I am full of melancholy, and in need of consolation. I shall return to London next Monday. Write to me: 18 Arlington Street, care of Mr. Ellice. I shall remain but a short time, and shall go with him probably to Glenquoich.

This city is very pretty; there is little smoke, and one sees in every direction hills covered with grass and trees. It is not too cold. The friends with whom I am stopping are people of intelligence, and the baths are doing me good. Good-bye....