The editor of the French paper, of which I have been the London correspondent for a few months, sends me a check, with the sad intelligence that one of the first acts of the new Government has been to suppress our paper.
Things are taking a gloomy aspect, and no mistake.
12th June, 1873.
To return to France at once would be a retreat, a defeat. I will not leave England, at any rate, before I can speak English correctly and fluently. I could manage this when a child; it ought not to take me very long to be able to do the same now.
I pore over the Times educational advertisements every day.
Have left my name with two scholastic agents.
25th June, 1873.
I have put my project into execution, and engaged myself in a school in Somersetshire.
The post is not a brilliant one, but I am told that the country is pretty, my duties light, and that I shall have plenty of time for reading.