should share it. Lovell has asked this good Jewess and her _futur_ to
come here, if she should visit Europe. He is at home now, and kind as
ever to every creature within reach of his benevolence.

We have been reading Fleury's _Memoirs of Napoleon_. Get it in French:
it is very interesting, or we never could have got through it in the
wretched translation to which we were doomed.

Tell Sophy that Peggy Tuite, who turned into Peggy Mulheeran, has had a
dead child. When my mother said to her brother, "Do not let people crowd
in and heat her room," "Oh, ma'am, sure I am standing at the door since
three in the morning, sentinel, to keep them out," the tears dropping
from his eyes fast on the ground as he spoke. And all the time the old
_ould_ mother Tuite (who doats on Mrs. Ruxton-dear) was sitting rocking
herself to and fro, and "crying under the big laurel, that Peggy might
not hear her."

You may all praise erysipelas as much as you please, but I never desire
to see or feel it again. Our boy, Mick Duffy, has been ill with it these
ten days. Honora said to his father, Brian, "How can you be so fond of
Michael; now that he lives with us, you hardly ever see him!" "Oh, how
could I but be fond of him, the crater that sends me every guinea he
gets!"


_July 8_.

So Buonaparte is dead! and no change will be made in any country by the
death of a man who once made such a figure in the world! He who
commanded empires and sovereigns, a prisoner in an obscure island,