Paris, July 29, 1854.

I arrived here day before yesterday, and have not written before because I have been too sad. One of my boyhood friends has taken the cholera. To-day he is considered out of danger. In crossing the Channel, there was an icy wind, which gave me a cold, or something like rheumatism. My chest feels as if it were clasped in an iron band, and every movement is accompanied by severe pain. I am obliged, however, to leave to-night for Normandy, where I am to make a speech to the idlers of Cayenne. This troublesome business finished, I shall hasten home as quickly as possible, and I expect to reach Paris on the evening of August 2d. After that, I have no settled plans. At one time I had formed some idea of spending a month in Venice, but the quarantine regulations, and other annoyances rendered necessary by the cholera, make a journey in that direction almost impossible.

My minister has offered to send me to Munich, as Commissioner of I know not what, in regard to a Bavarian exposition. I have given no definite answer, and shall wait until after my return to Paris to decide. You will probably spend several days in London, and a visit to the Crystal Palace is worth the voyage. With respect to artistic ideals, it is perfectly ridiculous, but in the design of the building and its execution there is something so great, and at the same time so simple, that to form any conception of it, one must go to England and see it for himself. ‘Tis a plaything costing twenty-five millions, a cage in which several large churches could waltz comfortably.

My last days in London were amusing and interesting. I met and associated with all the politicians. I was present at the debate on the subsidies in the House of Lords, and in the Commons, where all the famous orators spoke—very spitefully, it seemed to me. Finally, I had an excellent dinner. They serve such at the Crystal Palace, and I recommend them to you, who are an epicure.

I have brought back from London a pair of garters, which were made, so I am assured, at Borrin’s. I do not know what English women wear around their stockings, nor how they procure this indispensable article; but it must be, I fancy, a very difficult thing to get, and one that is singularly trying to their virtue. The clerk who sold me those garters blushed to his ears.

You write me words of tenderness, which would rejoice my heart if experience had not made me incredulous. I dare not hope for that which I desire most ardently. You are perfectly aware that you have but to move a finger to bring me to you. I wish that in this period of great uncertainty, you would act as if we were in danger of meeting no more. Good-bye. I love you dearly, whatever you may do. Write to me at Cayenne, care of M. Mark, the captain of the steamer. I shall be overjoyed to hear from you.