Here is your packet!  O my dear, dear friend, how shall I thank you half enough!  I shall send the parcels to-morrow morning, the very first thing, to Mr. Holloway.  The work is at the binder’s, but fly-leaves have been left for the American packet of which I felt so sure, although even I could hardly foresee its value.  One or two duplicates I have kept.  Tell Mr. Hawthorne that I shall make a dozen people rich and happy by his autograph, and tell Dr. Holmes I could not find it in my heart to part with the “Mary” stanza.  Never was a writer who possessed more perfectly the art of doing great things greatly and small things gracefully.  Love to Mr. Hawthorne and to him.

Poor Daniel Webster! or rather poor America!  Rich as she is, she cannot afford the loss, the greatest the world has known since our Sir Robert.  But what a death-bed, and what a funeral!  How noble an end of that noble life!  I feel it the more, hearing and reading so much about the Duke’s funeral, which by dint of the delay will not cause the slightest real feeling, but will be attended just like every show, and yet as a show will be gloomy and poor.  How much better to have laid him simply here at Strathfieldsaye, and left it as a place of pilgrimage,—­as Strathfield will be,—­although between the two men, in my mind, there was no comparison; the one was a genius, the other mere soldier,—­pure physical force measured with intellect the richest and the proudest.  I have twenty letters speaking of him as one of the greatest among the statesmen of the age.  The Times only refuses to do him justice.  But when did the Times do justice to any one?  Look how it talks of our Emperor.

Your friend Bayard Taylor came to see me a fortnight ago, just before he sailed on his tour round the world.  I told him the first of Bentley’s reprinting his letters from the New York Tribune; he had not heard a word of it.  He seemed an admirable person, and it is good to have such travellers to follow with one’s heart and one’s earnest good wishes.

Also I have had two packets,—­one from Mrs. Sparks, with a nice letter, and some fresh and glorious autumnal flowers, and a collection of autumn leaves from your glorious forests.  I have written to thank her.  She seems full of heart, and she says that she drove into Boston on purpose to see you, but missed you.  When you do meet, tell me about her.  Also, I have through you, dear friend, a most interesting book from Mr. Ware.  To him, also, I have written, but tell him how much I feel and prize his kindness, all the more welcome for coming from a kinsman of dear Mrs. W——.  Tell her and her excellent husband that they cannot think of us oftener or more warmly than we think of them.  O, how I should like to visit you at Boston!  But I should have your malady by the way, and not your strength to stand it....

    God bless you, my dear and excellent friend!  I seem to have a
    thousand things to say to you, but the post is going, and a whole
    sheet of paper would not hold my thanks.