I am beginning to count the days. The month will not come to an end, I hope, without seeing you. I suspect that in Paris you feel no longing for mountain air or legs of mutton. I myself am living in the open air. I sleep no better than ever, but I have good legs, and I can climb without losing my breath. Good-bye. Write once more and tell me the news and the novelties of Paris. I am so rusty that I have taken to reading Mormon leaflets; to reach this point one must come to Cannes. CXCI PARIS, _March 24, 1859_. Were you free to-day? To my distress, I supposed I was engaged for the whole day, which prevented me from writing and asking to see you. At the last moment I found myself perfectly free, with all the chagrin that you may imagine. I am glad if my article on Prescott’s work has pleased you. I am not too well satisfied with it myself, because I have not said half of what I wished to say, in accordance with the aphorism of Philip II, that one should speak only well of the dead. The work is really mediocre, and not even interesting. It seems to me that if the author had been less of a Yankee he might have done something better.... CXCII PARIS, _April 23, 1859_. The news has made me ill, although I was not at all surprised. Everything now is given over to chance. I suppose your brother is ready to be off. I wish him all the good luck possible. The war,[19] I fancy, will be violent enough at first, but it will not last long. The financial condition of every one concerned will not allow its continuance. While strolling yesterday in the woods, where there were multitudes of birds, it seemed extraordinary that in such weather as this people should be amusing themselves fighting. I hope you find the _Memoirs of Catherine_ entertaining. There is a flavour of local colour which I find delightful. What a ridiculous creature was a great lady of that period, and how clear as day does it appear from this story that nothing but strangling could have had any effect on a beast like Peter III! Some one gave me to read a novel by Lady Georgina Fullerton, written in French, with a request that I should note the passages that are imperfect. There is nothing in the book but Béarnese peasants who eat bread and butter and poached eggs, and who sell peaches at thirty francs a basket. I might as well try to write a Chinese novel. You ought to take this book and correct it for me for the trouble I have taken to lend you so many books which you have never returned. I went to the Exposition yesterday, and it seemed to me shockingly commonplace. The tendency of art is to a low level which amounts to positive flatness. CXCIII PARIS, _Thursday, April 28, 1859_.