CANNES, _January 5, 1868_.
DEAR FRIEND: Pardon my delay in replying to your letter. I have been,
and am still, extremely ill. The cold, which has penetrated even so far
as this, is very harmful to me. It is said that in Paris it is much more
severe, and that you have no cause to envy Siberia. I am sometimes, the
greater part of the day, unable to breathe. There is no sharp pain in
this, but a discomfort of the most wearisome kind, which reacts severely
on the nerves. You know me well enough to understand how well I endure
all this.
Moreover, I am suffering great anxiety on account of my poor friend
Panizzi, who is dangerously ill in London. The latest news was somewhat
comforting, but there is still little ground for reassurance: He is
discouraged about himself, which is always a bad symptom in sick people.
Amidst all my sorrows, I am killing time as I may. I send to-day to the
_Journal des Savants_ the end of the first part of _Pierre le
Grand_--for there are first and second parts in this, as in the novels
of Ponson de Terrail--and to the _Moniteur_, a long critique on
Poushkin. All this you will see in its proper time and place.
I am now reading a book which is too long, and badly written, but the
author of which seems to be honest, and describes what he has seen and
heard. One must pass over his reflections, for in these he is a little
silly. The book is Dixon’s _New America_. He has seen the Mormons, and,
what is still more curious, the Republic of Mount Lebanon. This and
Fenianism give one an idea of America. Decidedly Talleyrand’s epigram
defines it exactly.
Good-bye, dear friend, I wish you health and happiness.