, and fascinating hats and caps, and
brilliant restaurants, and M. le President in a cocked hat and with a
train of cavalry, passing like a rocket along the boulevards to an
occasional yell from the Red. Oh yes, and don't mistake me! for I like
it all extremely, it's a splendid city--a city in the country, as Venice
is a city in the sea. And I'm as much amused as Wiedeman, who stands in
the street before the printshops (to Wilson's great discomfort) and
roars at the lions. And I admire the bright green trees and gardens
everywhere in the heart of the town. Surely it is a most beautiful city!
And I like the restaurants more than is reasonable; dining _a la carte_,
and mixing up one's dinner with heaps of newspapers, and the 'solution'
by Emile de Girardin, who suggests that the next President should be a
tailor. Moreover, we find apartments very cheap in comparison to what we
feared, and we are in a comfortable quiet hotel, where it is possible,
and not ruinous, to wait and look about one.

As to England--oh England--how I dread to think of it. We talk of going
over for a short time, but have not decided when; yet it will be soon
perhaps--it may. If it were not for my precious Arabel, I would not go;
because Robert's family would come to him here, they say. But to give up
Arabel is impossible. Henrietta is in Somersetshire; it is uncertain
whether I shall see her, even in going, and she too might come to Paris
this winter. And you will come--you promised, I think?...

I feel here _near enough_ to England, that's the truth. I recoil from
the bitterness of being nearer. Still, it must be thought of.

Dearest cousin, dearest friend, in all this pleasant journey we have
borne you in mind, and gratefully! You must feel _that_ without being
told. I won't quite do like my Wiedeman, who every time he fires his gun
(if it's twenty times in five minutes) says, 'Papa, papa,' because
Robert gave him the gun, and the gratitude is as re-iterantly and loudly
explosive. But one's thoughts may say what they please and as often as
they please.

Arabel tells me that you are kind to the manner of my poem, though to
the matter obdurate. Miss Mitford, too, says that it won't receive the
sympathy proper to a home subject, because the English people don't care
anything for the Italians now; despising them for their want of
originality in _Art_! That's very good of the English people, really! I
fear much that dear Miss Mitford has suffered se