... We left Rome after a fortnight’s visit to the Storys, which was very pleasant _quoad_ the old friends, but rather wild and whirling _quoad_ the new. Two receptions a week, one in the afternoon and one in the evening, were rather confusing for wits so eremitical as mine. I am not equal to the _grande monde_.... We have been twice to the incomparable Museum, which is to me the most interesting in the world. There is the keyhole through which we barbarians can peep into a Greek interior--provincial Greek, Roman Greek if you will, but still Greek. _To C. E. Norton._ HOTEL DE LORRAINE, 7 RUE DE BEAUNE, PARIS, 11 May, 1874. ... I expected to arrive here a fortnight earlier than I did, for the fine weather began just as we were leaving Rome, and I dawdled as one always does in that lovely air. I had one delightful drive out to the Tavolato with Story, Dexter, Wild, and Tilton the day before we left. We lunched under an arbor of dried canes, drank _vino asciulto_, ate a _frittata_ and endless eggs _al tegame_, and were like boys on a half-holiday. What a light that was half shadow, and what shadows that were all light were over everything!... They explain all our bad weather here, and it is nearly all bad, by the simple formula _ce sont les giboulées_, and you see I have been lucky enough to get from a doctor in Rome a phrase that makes me more content under the unseasonable performances of my own personal meteorology. I have already accumulated a heap of catalogues, but have bought no books. I shall buy a few more.... _To W. D. Howells._ PARIS, 13 May, 1874. ... We have taken our passage for the 24th June, and shall arrive, if all go well, in time for the “glorious Fourth.” I hope we shall find you in Cambridge. I long to get back, and yet am just beginning to get wonted (as they say of babies and new cows) over here. The delightful little inn where I am lodged is almost like home to me, and the people are as nice as can be.... _To George Putnam._ PARIS, 19 May, 1874. ... For my own part, though I have had a great deal of homesickness, I come back to Cambridge rather sadly. I have not been over well of late. The doctor in Rome, however, gave my troubles a name--and that by robbing them of mystery has made them commonplace. He said it was _suppressed gout_. It has a fancy of gripping me in the stomach sometimes, holding on like a slow fire for seven hours at a time. It is wonderful how one gets used to things, however. But it seems to be growing lighter, and I hope to come home robust and red.... _To Thomas Hughes,_ PARIS, 27 May, 1874.