all that can be found, especially one of which the refrain is, “Chez l’Ambassadere de France.”  I was such a fool, when I read it six or seven years ago, as not to take a copy.  Do you think Mr. Hector Bossange could help me to that, or to any others not printed in the Memories? ...Of course I shall devote one chapter to our Emperor.  Ah, how much better is such a government as his than one which every four years causes a sort of moral earthquake; or one like ours, where whole sessions are passed in squabbling!  The loss of his place has saved Disraeli’s life, for everybody said he could not have survived three months’ badgering in the House.  A very intimate friend of his (Mr. Henry Drummond, the very odd, very clever member for Surrey) says that he had certainly broken a bloodvessel.  One piece of news I have heard to-day from Miss Goldsmid, that the Jews are certain now to gain their point and be admitted to the House of Commons; for my part, I hold that every one has a claim to his civil rights, were he Mahometan or Hindoo, and I rejoice that poor old Sir Isaac, the real author of the movement, will probably live to see it accomplished.  The thought of succeeding at last in the pursuit to which he has devoted half his life has quite revived him.

And now Heaven bless you, my very dear friend.  None of the poems on Wellington are to be compared to that dirge on Webster.  I rejoice that my article should have pleased his family.  The only bit of my new book that I have written is a paper on Taylor and Stoddard.  Say everything for me to the Ticknors and Nortons and your own people, the W——­s.

     Ever most faithfully and affectionately yours, M.R.M.

    Swallowfield, February 1, 1853.

Ah, my dear friend! ask Dr. Holmes what these severe bruises and lacerations of the nerves of the principal joints are, and he will tell you that they are much more slow and difficult of cure, as well as more painful, than half a dozen broken bones.  It is now above six weeks since that accident, and although the shoulder is going on favorably, there is still a total loss of muscular power in the lower limbs.  I am just lifted out of bed and wheeled to the fireside, and then at night wheeled back and lifted into bed,—­without the power of standing for a moment, or of putting one foot before the other, or of turning in bed.  Mr. May says that warm weather will probably do much for me, but that till then I must be a prisoner to my room, for that if rheumatism supervenes upon my present inability, there will be no chance of getting rid of it.  So “patience and shuffle the cards,” as a good man, much in my state, the contented Marquess, says in Don Quixote....  I assure you I am not out of spirits; indeed, people are so kind to me that it would be the basest of all ingratitude if I were not cheerful as well as thankful.  I think that in a letter which you must have received by this time, I told you how it came about, and thanked you