[Paris], 138 Avenue des Ch.-Elysées:
February 15, [1852].

Thank you, thank you, my beloved friend. Yes; I do understand in my
heart all your kindness. Yes, I do believe that on some points I am full
of disease; and this has exposed me several times to shocks of pain in
the ordinary intercourse of the world, which for bystanders were hard, I
dare say, to make out. Once at the Baths of Lucca I was literally nearly
struck down to the ground by a single word said in all kindness by a
friend whom I had not seen for ten years. The blue sky reeled over me,
and I caught at something, not to fall. Well, there is no use dwelling
on this subject. I understand your affectionateness and tender
consideration, I repeat, and thank you; and love you, which is better.
Now, let us talk of reasonable things.

Béranger lives close to us, and Robert has seen him in his white hat
wandering along the asphalte. I had a notion somehow that he was very
old; but he is only elderly, not much indeed above sixty (which is the
prime of life now-a-days), and he lives quietly and keeps out of scrapes
poetical and political, and if Robert and I had but a little less
modesty we are assured that we should find access to him easy. But we
can't make up our minds to go to his door and introduce ourselves as
vagrant minstrels, when he may probably not know our names. We never
_could_ follow the fashion of certain authors who send their books about
without intimations of their being likely to be acceptable or not, of
which practice poor Tennyson knows too much for his peace. If, indeed, a
letter of introduction to Béranger were vouchsafed to us from any benign
quarter, we should both be delighted, but we must wait patiently for
the influence of the stars. Meanwhile, we have at last sent our letter