of the other.  For my own part, I really believe that there is nothing like one mind, one wise and good ruler; and I verily believe that the President of France is that man.  My only doubt being whether the people are worthy of him, fickle as they are, like all great masses,—­the French people, in particular.  By the way, if a most vilely translated book, called the “Prisoner of Ham,” be extant in French, I should like to possess it.  The account of the escape looks true, and is most interesting.

I have been exceedingly struck, since I last wrote to you, by some extracts from Edgar Poe’s writings; I mean a book called “The Readable Library,” composed of selections from his works, prose and verse.  The famous ones are, I find, The Maelstrom and The Raven; without denying their high merits, I prefer that fine poem on The Bells, quite as fine as Schiller’s, and those remarkable bits of stories on circumstantial evidence.  I am lower, dear friend, than ever, and what is worse, in supporting myself on my hand I have strained my right side and can hardly turn in bed.  But if we cannot walk round Swallowfield, we can drive, and the very sight of you will do me good.  If Mr. Bentley send me only one copy of that engraving, it shall be for you.  You know I have a copy for you of the book.  There are no words to tell the letters and books I receive about it, so I suppose it is popular.  I have lost, as you know, my most accomplished and admirable neighbor, Sir Henry Russell, the worthy successor of the great Lord Clarendon.  His eldest daughter is my favorite young friend, a most lovely creature, the ideal of a poet.  I hope you will see Beranger.  Heaven bless you!

    Ever yours, M.R.M.

    Saturday Night.

Ah, my very dear friend, how can I ever thank you?  But I don’t want to thank you.  There are some persons (very few, though) to whom it is a happiness to be indebted, and you are one of them.  The books and the busts are arrived.  Poor dear Louis Napoleon with his head off—­Heaven avert the omen!  Of course that head can be replaced, I mean stuck on again upon its proper shoulders.  Beranger is a beautiful old man, just what one fancies him and loves to fancy him.  I hope you saw him.  To my mind, he is the very greatest poet now alive, perhaps the greatest man, the truest and best type of perfect independence.  Thanks a thousand and a thousand times for those charming busts and for the books.  Mrs. Browning had mentioned to me Mr. Read.  If I live to write another book, I shall put him and Mr. Taylor and Mr. Stoddard together, and try to do justice to Poe.  I have a good right to love America and the Americans.  My Mr. Lucas tells me to go, and says he has a mind to go.  I want you to know John Lucas, not only the finest portrait-painter, but about the very finest mind that I know in the world.  He might be.... for talent and manner and heart; and, if you like, you shall, when I am dead, have