They talk of nothing here but the marriage of Lady Florence Paget, the London beauty of two seasons ago. It is impossible to see a prettier face or a more graceful figure, but too small and delicate to suit my own taste. She was notorious for her flirtations. M. Ellice’s nephew, Chaplin, of whom you have often heard me speak, a tall fellow of twenty-five, with an income of twenty-five thousands pounds sterling, fell in love with her. She trifled with him a long time, then engaged herself, and it is said, accepted jewels and six thousand pounds to pay her debts with the dressmaker. The day for the marriage was appointed. Last Friday, they went together to the park and to the opera. Saturday morning she went out alone, proceeded to the Church of Saint George, and there was married to Lord Hastings, a young man of her own age, very homely, and with two petty vices, gambling and drink. After the religious ceremony they went to the country to consummate other ceremonies. At the first stop she wrote to her father as follows: “DEAR PA: As I knew you would never consent to my marriage with Lord Hastings, I was wedded to him to-day. I remain yours, etc.” She wrote also to Chaplin: “DEAR HARRY: When you receive this, I shall be the wife of Lord Hastings. Forget yours, very truly, FLORENCE.” This poor Chaplin, who is six feet tall, and has yellow hair, is in despair. Good-bye, dear friend. Write to me quickly. CCLXXV PARIS, _October 1, 1864_. DEAR FRIEND: I am still here, but like a bird on the limb. I have been delayed by my proofs, and you may well understand that they need the most careful correction. I shall start without fail on the 8th, stopping to spend the night at Bayonne, and reaching Madrid the 11th. I do not yet know how long I shall be there. From Madrid I shall go to Cannes, perhaps without passing through Paris. Winter is already making itself felt disagreeably for my lungs, in the mornings and evenings. The days are magnificent, but the evenings devilish chilly. Take care not to catch cold in the damp country in which you are staying. I enjoy myself well enough at this season in Paris, where there are no social duties, and where one may live like a hermit. From time to time I go out to get the news, but I obtain very little. The Pope has forbidden the painting of signs in French in Rome. They must all be in Italian. On the Corso there is a Madame Bernard, who sells gloves and garters. They have forced her to call herself henceforth Signora Bernardi. If I were the Government I should never have permitted this, even if it were necessary to hang some sign-painter in front of the first shop which they wished to change. When our army shall have departed, you will see then what those people will do....