MY DEAREST LADY CHARLOTTE, A sudden wish has seized me to write to you--not that I have an atom of a thing to say except the old hacknied fact that I am very fond of you, and also that I heard constantly of you when I was at Richmond through your sons,[579] and the Flahaults,[580] and that now I do not see how I am to hear of you at all, except somebody at Hatchford (not you) will have the kindness to write to me. Barring the loss of the view, and the drives in that beautiful park, I do not miss my Richmond so much as I expected. There is always something intensely comfortable in home, and my own books and things, and I am very busy with a new sitting-room that I have made upstairs, by throwing two small bedrooms into one. It has made a very pretty warm room, looks clean and bright, and then there is the fun of furnishing it. It is painful to look out of the window. Those dreadful Royal Commissioners have cut down all the fine trees belonging to Gore House[581] and are running up a blank wall 20 feet high, for their new garden. My own trees are the only ones left in this neighbourhood, and though the blank wall is better than another row of houses staring into my garden, the general effect is that of living just outside the King’s Bench Prison. I look upon a man who cuts down a large tree in London as capable of committing murder, or any other crime, and have a vague idea that the Road Murder[582] might be traced home to Prince Albert and Lord Granville, or one of these Commissioners. It will interest Lady Ellesmere to know that Lena[583] has returned to her navvies, and has been greeted with the greatest warmth. Indeed, I should prefer a little more coolness in her place, as they all insist on shaking hands, and I imagine washing is a virtue they do not practise more than once a week. However, they are an interesting race, very grateful in their rough way; and the Controller and Clerk of the Works both say that there is a great improvement in their habits, and are very eager now to encourage the readings. A great deal of the work in these gardens has now passed into the hands of London bricklayers and carpenters. They steadily declined listening to Mr. Ward, the missionary, and were very rude to him.