Paris, October 24, 1860.

Dear Friend: I received your letter of the 15th. I have delayed a reply because I have been in the country, at my cousin’s, where I walked during the day and played backgammon at night. In fact, I have been very lazy. I thank you for the descriptions you gave me, but they need a running commentary and illustrations, especially what you say concerning the native dances; from what you tell me, they must resemble somewhat the dances of the gitanas of Grenada. The idea is probably the same as that represented by the Moors. I have no doubt that if an Arab of the Sahara should see a waltz in Paris, he would conclude, very reasonably, that the French also use pantomime. When one goes to the bottom of things one discovers always the same original ideas. You have observed this when you studied mythology with me.

I do not at all acknowledge the timidity of your explanations. You have at your disposal euphemisms enough to tell me everything, and you act as you do only that I may plead and insist. Come, be more communicative in your next letter.

I am becoming worse and worse every day. I begin to be resigned to my fate, but it is a lamentable thing to see one’s self growing old and dying by inches.

You ask me to explain the present disorders. Are you not sick of it? Unfortunately, no one understands anything of it. Read the Constitutionnel of to-day. There is an interesting and inspired article by GuÉronniÈre. He says, in substance: “I can not approve the attack made on innocent people; yet, on the other hand, I have no interest in those who are being skinned, and do not desire to see them aided in any way save in advice.”

I went yesterday to Saint Cloud, where I had lunch most informally with the emperor, the empress, and “Monsieur fils,” as they say in Lyons. Everybody was in good health and high spirits. I had a long conversation with the emperor, particularly on ancient history and CÆsar. The facility with which he grasps the meaning of erudite subjects, for which he has found a taste only recently, is most astonishing.

The empress related several curious incidents connected with her trip to Corsica. The bishop had told her of a bandit named Bosio, whose history might have been copied from Colomba. He is a worthy fellow, who has been persuaded by the advice of a woman to commit two or three trifling crimes. For several months they have been trying to capture him, but in vain; women and children suspected of furnishing him food have been imprisoned, but it is impossible to lay hands on him. No one knows where he is. Her Majesty, who has read the novel that you know, had become interested in this man, and said she would be delighted if some one should give him the wherewithal to leave the island and go to Africa or elsewhere, where he might become a good soldier and an honest man. “Ah! Madame,” said the bishop, “will you permit me to send this message to him?”

“Then, monseigneur, you know where he is?” As a general rule, the very worst scamps in Corsica are always connected in some way with the most respectable men. They were greatly surprised to find that, while they were besought to grant a prodigious number of favours, no one asked for a sou. The empress has returned full of enthusiasm.

The meeting at Warsaw is a fiasco. The Austrian emperor went uninvited, and discovered an example of the kind of courtesy shown presumptuous persons. He pretended to demonstrate that if Austria was in danger from Hungary, Russia also had an enemy in Poland; to which Gortchakoff replied: “You have eleven millions of Hungarians, and you are three million Germans. We are forty million Russians, and need no help to bring to reason six millions of Poles. Consequently there is no mutual confidence.”

It seems to me that, so far as Germany is concerned, things look peaceable, and it is possible, nay, even probable, that she might make us overtures to pursue the same course in respect to Italy. If this should occur, war, I think, would be impossible, unless, however, Garibaldi should make an attack upon Venice; yet the Italians are more prudent than is supposed.

I hear from Naples that the turmoil there is at its climax, and that the Piedmontese are expected with the same impatience that we experienced in 1848, when we were looking for the arrival of the regular troops in Paris. It is for order that they sigh, and which they will not realise except under Victor Emmanuel. Garibaldi and Alexander Dumas have prepared the way for it, just as a journey in the cold and rain prepares one to enjoy a warm dinner.

Good-bye, dear friend. I am thinking of starting soon to Cannes. Upon reaching Marseilles, about the middle of November, I shall intrust your package to the office of the steamship company. Give me details of the customs, and have no fear of shocking me. Take good care of yourself, and do not forget me.