Englishmen are here in great numbers. I dined day before yesterday at Lord Brougham’s, with I don’t know how many misses, freshly arrived from Scotland, to whom the sight of the sun seemed to cause immense surprise. If I had the talent to describe costumes, I should amuse you with the description of theirs. You have never seen anything to equal them since the invention of crinoline. I am reading the _Memoirs of Catherine II_. As a representation of manners and customs it is remarkable. This and the _Memoirs of the Margrave of Bayruth_ give a singular idea of the people of the eighteenth century, and especially of the court-life of the period. When Catherine II married the grand duke, who became afterwards Peter III, she had a wealth of diamonds and beautiful brocade gowns, and yet her living apartment consisted of a single room, which served as a passageway to her women, who, twenty-six in number, all slept in one room beside that of the queen. There is not a tradesman’s wife to-day who does not live more comfortably than did empresses a hundred years ago. The memoirs of Catherine stop, unfortunately, at the most interesting moment, before the death of Elisabeth. She says enough, however, to give the strongest reasons for believing that Paul I was the son of a Prince Soltykof. It is a singular thing that the manuscript in which all these choice incidents are related she dedicated to her son, this same Paul I. I have learned that you executed conscientiously my commission for the purchase of books. I have even received Olga’s acknowledgments. She seems enchanted with her portion. One book especially, something about _Gems of Poetry_ (_?_), has produced a tremendous effect. I inclose her eulogies. I hope your fertile imagination will not rest with this success, and that it will find me something for my cousin, Sainte Eulalie. Good-bye, dear friend. I should like to send you a little of my sunshine. Take care of yourself, and think of me. The _prigadiou_ is remarkably well. After his fast of six weeks he has begun to eat again. He devoured three flies the day of his arrival in Cannes. At present, he has become so fastidious that he will eat nothing but the heads. Good-bye again.... CLXXXIX CANNES, _January 22, 1859_, _at night_. Marvellous moonlight, not a cloud, the sea as smooth as a mirror, and no breath of wind. From ten o’clock until five it was as warm as a June day. The longer I stay the more I am convinced that it is the light that does me good, more than the warmth and exercise. We had one rainy day, followed by one of gloom and threatening skies. I had horrible spasms of coughing, but as soon as the sun reappeared, Richard was himself again.