PARIS, _Friday, December 12, 1863_.
DEAR FRIEND: I was about to write to you when I received your letter.
You complain of having a cold, but you do not know what it means to have
one. At this moment, but one person in Paris has a cold, and that person
is myself. I spend my time coughing and choking, and if it continues,
you will soon have to deliver my funeral oration. I am longing anxiously
for Cannes, for it is only under its sun that I shall get well. Before
going, however, I must vote on that tedious and involved discourse which
our president, so worthy of his name,[31] has composed for our
edification.
Do you know Aristophanes? Last night, being troubled with insomnia, I
took up a volume and read it through. It was highly amusing. I have made
a translation of it, none too good a one, but it is subject to your
orders. There are things which will be shocking to your prudery, but
they will interest you, especially now that you have learned from Cicero
something of the morals of the ancients. Good-bye....