It appears that four of my ancient letters were sold at auction, three of them at twenty-seven dollars, twenty-eight dollars, and twenty-nine dollars respectively, and the one above mentioned at forty-three dollars.

There is one very gratifying circumstance about this, to wit: that my literature has more than held its own as regards money value through this stretch of thirty-six years.

I judge that the forty-three-dollar letter must have gone at about ten cents a word, whereas if I had written it to-day its market rate would be thirty cents--so I have increased in value two or three hundred per cent.

I note another gratifying circumstance--that a letter of General Grant's sold at something short of eighteen dollars.

I can't rise to General Grant's lofty place in the estimation of this nation, but it is a deep happiness to me to know that when it comes to epistolary literature he can't sit in the front seat along with me.
This reminds me--nine years ago, when we were living in Tedworth Square, London, a report was cabled to the American journals that I was dying.