Paris, September 14, 1844.

All our preparations were made to start to-day, when there came a commotion which scattered our plans to the winds. There was a collision between the Department of War and the Department of the Interior. War will not have us. We shall remain, therefore, or, to be more accurate, I am not going to Africa. I shall be out of town on business for a fortnight, and shall then return to Paris. Aside from the vexation one feels when a plan miscarries, and the keen regret for having wasted two months in acquiring a lot of useless information, I am taking my disappointment with the greatest imperturbability. Perhaps you can guess why.

In your last letter there are several disagreeable sentences, about which I might well pick a quarrel with you, were it not that I find it profitless—as you say you do—and, what is even worse, dangerous and depressing to dispute with each other at a distance.

I can not imagine how you spend the twenty-four hours of the day. I am able to guess how you employ fourteen of them, but I should like to be informed in detail as to the other ten. Do you still read Herodotus? What a pity that you do not attempt a little of the original, with the translation of Larcher, which you have, I think. You would encounter no difficulties, except the excessive use of the Ionian ?. If you can get a copy of Zenophon’s Anabasis, you might enjoy it, especially if you have a map of Asia beside you as you read. I no longer remember The Dialogues of the Sea-gods (of Lucian). Read, rather, Jupiter Convicted or Jupiter the Tragedian, or even The Festival or The LapethÆ, unless you are keeping them for me as a surprise.

I am sure you are looking smart with your dazzling gowns and your flowers, and yet I am taking it on myself to advise Greek readings for you! Good-bye. Write to me soon, and do not ridicule me. I am going away Monday to gracious knows where, but it will not be far, according to all indications.