Here are three pages of Greek. As for the pronunciation, if you wish, I will send you a page which I prepared especially for you. It will teach you the best method, that is, the pronunciation used by modern Greeks. The classical is easier, but it is absurd. We began our correspondence by telling jokes, then we did what? I shall not remind you. And now we are becoming erudite. There is a Latin proverb which eulogises the happy medium. When I began to write I intended to say all sorts of severe things, and it is to Greek that you owe the absolute sweetness of my letter. It is not that I bear you less ill-will for your persistent insincerity, only, while writing, I have lost some of my bad humour. If you are not in Italy, do not regret it. The weather there is frightful, with rain, cold, etc. Nothing is more hideous than a land which is not accustomed to these two plagues. Good-bye. I should be very glad to know where you are. Ἑῥῥωσο (grow strong). This is the end of a Greek letter. P.S.--Opening a book, I have found these two little flowers, which I plucked at Thermopylæ, upon the hilltop where Leonidas died. It is a relic, as you see. XXIII _Thursday, October, 1842._ Should you like to hear an Italian opera with me to-night? I have a box on Thursdays with my cousin and his wife. They are now travelling, and I have the box to myself. You should come accompanied by your brother, or by one of your relatives who does not know me. You would please me greatly by coming. Send me a line before six o’clock, and I will let you know the number of the box. I think _La Cenerentola_ will be given. Invent some pretty fiction, which you must tell me in advance, to explain my presence; but manage it so that I may speak with you there. XXIV _Friday morning, October, 1842._ I thank you very much for having come yesterday. You gave me a great deal of pleasure. I hope your brother saw nothing extraordinary in our meeting. I have an Etruscan seal for you; I can not endure the one you are using. I will give you the other the next time I see you. I enclose the page of Greek which I prepared for you. When you have a relapse into an erudite mood it may be of use. XXV _Tuesday night, October, 1842._ I have lost nothing, as it seems, by waiting for your letter. It is studiously perverse; but believe me, perverseness is not becoming to you. Abandon this style, and resume your customary coquetry, which suits you marvellously.