So far had I written, dearest friend, when this day (March 26) brought me your most kind and welcome letter enclosed in another from dear Mr. Bennoch.  Am I to return Dr. Parsons’s? or shall I keep it till you come to fetch it?  Tell the writer how very much I prize his kindness, none the less that he likes (as I do) my tragedies, that is, one of them, the best of my poor doings.  The lines on the Duchess are capital, and quite what she deserves; but I think those the worst who, in so true a spirit of what Carlyle would call flunkeyism, consent to sign any nonsense that their names may figure side by side with that of a duchess, and they themselves find (for once) an admittance to the gilded saloons of Stafford House.  For my part, I well-nigh lost an admirer the other day by taking a common-sense view of the question.  A lady (whose name I never heard till a week ago) came here to take a house to be near me. (N.B.  There was none to be had.) Well, she was so provoked to find that I had stopped short of the one hundredth page of ——­, and never intended to read another, that I do think, if we had not discovered some sympathies to counterbalance that grand difference—­As I live, I have told you that story before!  Ah!  I am sixty-six, and I get older every day!  So does little Henry, who is at home just now, and longing to put the clock forward that he may go to America.  He is a boy of great promise, full of sound sense, and as good as good can be.  I suppose that he never in his life told an untruth, or broke a promise, or disobeyed a command.  He is very fond of his little sister; and not at all jealous either—­to the great praise of that four-footed lady be it said—­is Fanchon, who watches over the cradle, and is as fond of the baby in her way as Henry in his.

So far from paying me copyright money, all that I ever received from Mr. B——­ was two copies of his edition of “Our Village,” one of which I gave away, and of the other some chance visitor has taken one of the volumes.  I really do think I shall ask him for a copy or two.  How can I ever thank you enough for your infinite kindness in sending me books!  Thank you again and again.  Dear Mr. Bennoch has been making an admirable speech, in moving to present the thanks of the city to Mr. Layard.  How one likes to feel proud of one’s friends!  God bless you!

    Ever most faithfully yours, M.R.M.

Kind Mrs. Sparks’s biscuits arrived quite safe.  How droll some of the cookery is in “The Wide, Wide World”!  It would try English stomachs by its over-richness.  I wonder you are not all dead, if such be your cuisine.

    Swallowfield, May 3, 1853.