PARIS, _Sunday night_, _July 2, 1860_.
I received your letter this morning. The rough sea of which you speak
diminishes somewhat my regret for remaining in Paris. It is incredible,
however, that this deuced weather should last forever, notwithstanding
the sunspots mentioned in the newspapers.
Our session drags out indefinitely, which makes me furious. I have tried
to find an excuse to escape, but owing to my supreme importance, which
holds me tied here, it is extremely difficult to accomplish. This does
not mean that I am not ready at any moment to travel a hundred leagues
to dine with you, if I should receive such an invitation, and if some
one cared to wait for me. This is a humble suggestion which I take the
liberty to make you.
By leaving town so early you will lose a wonderful spectacle, that of
observing me pass _in fiocchi_, and black gloves, down the rue de
Rivoli, in the midst of the admiring populace.[23] I do not know how
many vacancies this ceremonial will cause in our ranks, but I have grave
fears that it will prove advantageous to the undertakers. Thirty
thousand persons came yesterday to sprinkle themselves with holy water,
and more came to-day; a good demonstration of the simplicity of this
magnanimous nation! It is more stupid, even, than is supposed, which is
saying a great deal.
The Orleanists pretend that M. Brénier was murdered by an angry husband,
which, considering the amplitude of his abdomen, seems to me scarcely
probable. It is more reasonable to suppose that the _lazzaroni_ took
this means of avenging their ill-used king. The Liberals, in
retaliation, have assassinated the police commissioners, which, of
course, has been of great advantage to M. Brénier.
The Italians of the north have none of the emotionalism of the
Neapolitans. They have common-sense and theological minds, as Stendhal
said, while the Neapolitans are only ill-trained, twelve-year-old
children. We shall see, probably, some fine examples of this in the
fall, for it looks as if I should go there, instead of to Africa.
I am waiting to hear that your salon is full of country curiosities, and
that you yourself are wearing a flowered morning-gown and Turkish
slippers. You will think longingly of the muddy streets of Paris.
However, I do not care to refer again to your expedition. Many things
may occur to cause you to change your plans. You are acquainted with
mine. I shall remain at the British Museum until the end of July, after
which I shall spend a few days at Bath, and then go to Scotland, where I
shall stay the month of September awaiting an invitation from you.
Good-bye.