CANNES, _December 28, 1860_.
DEAR FRIEND: I wish you a happy ending of the old and a happier
beginning of the new year. I thank you for the pretty purse which you
sent me. Did I say purse? I do not know exactly what it is, or what it
is to be used for; but it is very pretty, and the gold embroidery, in
different colours, is in exquisite taste. It takes the barbarians to
make such things. Our artificers have too much acquired skill and too
little sentiment to make anything equal to them.
I thank you for the offer of the dates and bananas. If I were in Paris,
I should not refuse, but you can not conceive of the carelessness of our
transportation. I waited a whole week for a pair of trousers, begging
your pardon, which went from Marseilles to Nice, and from there God
knows where, before they finally reached me. Things to eat would be
still more uncertain. When you return you may bring them with you, and
we shall eat them together, which will be much nicer.
You have not told me if you saw M. Feydeau in Algiers. I met him in the
railway train coming from Africa, where he had gone, he told me, to
write a novel. Although I have said no more about it, you promised me to
collect data for me, and to gather a multitude of facts for my use in
the future.
You have confined yourself to giving me the most superficial
information, without telling me even your own opinion of things. Have
you seen in Algiers a sort of pouch which comes from Constantine, I
think, something like the _sabretache_ worn by our hussars, and
embroidered in a marvellous fashion? About how much do they cost? I
mean the most beautiful ones.
Cannes is filled with English and Russians, all of whom are exceedingly
ordinary specimens. My friend Mr. Ellice is in Nice, and comes to see me
from time to time. He complains of having no intellectual associates.
I see that you have had a visit from Mr. Cobden. He is an intelligent
man and very interesting, not like an Englishman, in that he is never
heard talking commonplaces and has not many prejudices. It seems that
Paris is entirely absorbed in M. Poinsot. They say that he himself is
responsible for his misfortune.
I should be glad to give you some political news, but my correspondents
tell me nothing, except that affairs are quiet. It is the characteristic
of our age to set in motion a turmoil, and to amuse one’s self while it
is in progress.
Good-bye. Keep in good health, and enjoy your sunshine.