I have had much ado to get to work; the heat here being so intense that
I can do nothing but lie on the bare floor all day. I never felt it
anything like so hot in Italy.
There is nothing doing in the theatres, and the atmosphere is so
horribly oppressive there that one can hardly endure it. I came out of
the Francais last night half dead. I am writing at this moment with
nothing on but a shirt and pair of white trousers, and have been
sitting four hours at this paper, but am as faint with the heat as if I
had been at some tremendous gymnastics; and yet we had a thunderstorm
last night.
I hope we are doing pretty well in Wellington Street. My anxiety makes
me feel as if I had been away a year. I hope to be home on Tuesday
evening, or night at latest. I have picked up a very curious book of
French statistics that will suit us, and an odd proposal for a company
connected with the gambling in California, of which you will also be
able to make something.
I saw a certain "Lord Spleen" mentioned in a playbill yesterday, and
will look after that distinguished English nobleman to-night, if
possible. Rachel played last night for the last time before going to
London, and has not so much in her as some of our friends suppose.
The English people are perpetually squeezing themselves into courtyards,
blind alleys, closed edifices, and other places where they have no sort
of business. The French people, as usual, are making as much noise as
possible about everything that is of no importance, but seem (as far as
one can judge) pretty quiet and good-humoured. They made a mighty
hullabaloo at the theatre last night, when Brutus (the play was
"Lucretia") declaimed about liberty.
Ever faithfully.
[Sidenote: Mr. W. H. Wills.]