(January, 1854.)

My Beloved Friend:  They who correspond with sick people must be content to receive such letters as are sent from hospitals.  For many weeks I have been wholly shut up in my own room, getting with exceeding difficulty from the bed to the fireside, quite unable to stir either in the chair or in the bed, but much less miserable up than when in bed.  The terrible cold of last summer did not allow me to gain any strength, so that although the fire in my room is kept up night and day, yet a severe attack of influenza came on and would have carried me off, had not Mr. May been so much alarmed at the state of the pulse and the general feebleness as to order me two tablespoonfuls of champagne in water once a day, and a teaspoonful of brandy also in water, at night, which undoubtedly saved my life.  It is the only good argument for what is called teetotalism that it keeps more admirable medicines as medicine; for undoubtedly a wine-drinker, however moderate, would not have been brought round by the remedy which did me so much good.  Miserably feeble I still am, and shall continue till May or June (if it please God to spare my life till then), when, if it be fine weather, Sam will lift me down stairs and into the pony-chaise, and I may get stronger.  Well, in the midst of the terrible cough, which did not allow me to lie down in bed, and a weakness difficult to describe, I finished “Atherton.”  I did it against orders and against warning, because I had an impression that I should not live to complete it, and I sent it yesterday to London to dear Mr. Bennoch, so I suppose you will soon receive the sheets.  Almost every line has been written three times over, and it is certainly the most cheerful and sunshiny story that was ever composed in such a state of helplessness, feebleness, and suffering; for the rheumatic pain in the chest not only rendered the cough terrible (that, thank God, is nearly gone now), but makes the position of writing one of misery.  God grant you may like this story!  I shall at least say in the Preface that it will give me one pleasure, that of having in the American title-page the names of dear friends united with mine.  Mind I don’t know whether the story be good or bad.  I only answer for its having the youthfulness which you liked in the preface to the plays.  Well, dearest friend, just when I was at the worst came your letter about the ducks and the ducks themselves.  Never were birds so welcome.  My friend, Mr. May, the cleverest and most admirable person whom I know in this neighborhood, refuses all fees of any sort, and comes twelve miles to see me, when torn to pieces by all the great folk round, from pure friendship.  Think how glad I was to have such a dainty to offer him just when he had all his family gathered about him at Christmas.  I thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving me this great pleasure, infinitely greater than eating it myself would have been.  They were delicious.  How very,