their kindness, and tell Mr. Hawthorne I shall prize a letter from him beyond all the worlds one has to give.  I rejoice to hear of the new work, and can answer for its excellence.

I trust that the English edition of Dr. Holmes will contain the “Astraea,” and the “Morning Visit,” and the “Cambridge Address.”  I am not sure, in my secret soul, that I do not prefer him to any American poet.  Besides his inimitable word-painting, the charity is so large and the scale so fine.  How kind in you to like my book,—­some people do like it.  I am afraid to tell you what John Ruskin says of it from Venice, and I get letters, from ten to twenty a day.  You know how little I dreamt of this!  Mrs. Trollope has sent me a most affectionate letter, bemoaning her ill-fortune in missing you.  I thank you for the Galignani edition, and the presidential kindness, and all your goodness of every sort.  I have nothing to give you but as large a share of my poor affection as I think any human being has.  You know a copy of the book from me has been waiting for you these three months.  Adieu, my dear friend.

    Ever yours,

    M.R.M.

    (July 6, 1852.) Monday Night, or, rather, 2 o’clock Tuesday Morning.

Having just finished Mr. Hawthorne’s book, dear Mr. Fields, I shall get K——­ to put it up and direct it so that it may be ready the first time Sam has occasion to go to Reading, at which time this letter will be put in the post; so that when you read this, you may be assured that the precious volumes are arrived at the Paddington Station, whence I hope they may be immediately transmitted to you.  If not, send for them.  They will have your full direction, carriage paid.  I say this, because the much vaunted Great Western is like all other railways, most uncertain and irregular, and we have lost a packet of plants this very week, sent to us, announced by letter and never arrived.  Thank you heartily for the perusal of the book.  I shall not name it in a letter which I mean to enclose to Mr. Hawthorne, not knowing that you mean to tell him, and having plenty of other things to say to him besides.  To you, and only to you, I shall speak quite frankly what I think.  It is full of beauty and of power, but I agree with ——­ that it would not have made a reputation as the other two books did, and I have some doubts whether it will not be a disappointment, but one that will soon be redeemed by a fresh and happier effort.  It seems to me too long, too slow, and the personages are to my mind ill chosen.  Zenobia puts one in mind of Fanny Wright and Margaret Fuller and other unsexed authorities, and Hollingsworth will, I fear, recall, to English people at least, a most horrible man who went about preaching peace.  I heard him lecture once, and shall never forget his presumption, his ignorance, or his vulgarity.  He is said to know many languages.  I can answer for his not knowing his own, for I never, even upon the