Swallowfield, March 17, 1853

My Dear Friend:  I cannot enough thank you for your most kind and charming letter.  Your letters, and the thoughts of you, and the hope that you will coax your partners into the hazardous experiment of letting you come to England, help to console me under this long confinement; for here I am at near Easter still a close prisoner from the consequences of the accident that took place before Christmas.  I have only once left my room, and that only to the opposite chamber to have this cleaned, and I got such a chill that it brought back all the pain and increased all the weakness.  But when fine weather—­warm, genial, sunny weather—­comes, I will get down in some way or other, and trust myself to that which never hurts any one, the honest open air.  Spring, and even the approach of spring, has upon me something the effect that England has upon you.  It sets me dreaming,—­I see leafy hedges in my dreams, and flowery banks, and then I long to make the vision a reality.  I remember that Fanchon’s father, Flush, who was a famous sporting dog, used, at the approach of the covering season, to quest in his sleep, doubtless by the same instinct that works in me.  So, as soon as the sun tells the same story with the primroses I shall make a descent after some fashion, and no doubt, aided by Sam’s stalwart arm, successfully.  In the mean while I have one great pleasure in store, be the weather what it may; for next Saturday or the Saturday after I shall see dear Mr. Bennoch.  We have not met since November, although he has written to me again and again.  He will take this letter, and I trouble you with a note to kind Mrs. Sparks, who is about to send me, or rather who has sent me, some American cracknels, which have not yet arrived.  To-day, too, I had a charming letter from Lasswade,—­not the letter, the pamphlet one, but one full of kindness from father and daughter, written by Miss Margaret to ask after me with a reality of interest which one feels at once.  It gave me pleasure in another way too; Mr. De Quincey is of my faith and delight in the Emperor!  Is not that delightful?  Also he holds in great abomination that blackest of iniquities ——­, my heresy as to which nearly cost me an idolator t’other day, a lady from Essex, who came here to take a house in my neighborhood to be near me.  She was so shocked that, if we had not met afterwards, when I regained my ground a little by certain congenialities she certainly would have abjured me forever.  Well! no offence to Mrs. ——.  I had rather in a literary question agree with Thomas De Quincey than with her and Queen Victoria, who, always fond of strong not to say coarse excitements, is amongst ——­’s warm admirers.  I knew you would like the Emperor’s marriage.  I heard last week from a stiff English lady, who had been visiting one of the Empress’s ladies of honor, that one day at St. Cloud she shot thirteen brace of partridges; “but,” added the