But good Heavens! what a deal I have written about my sons. I have had some hard work this autumn with the microscope; but this is over, and I have only to write out the papers for the Linnean Society. We have had a good many visitors; but none who would have interested you, except perhaps Mrs. Ritchie, the daughter of Thackeray, who is a most amusing and pleasant person. I have not seen Huxley for some time, but my wife heard this morning from Mrs. Huxley, who wrote from her bed, with a bad account of herself and several of her children; but none, I hope, are at all dangerously ill. Farewell, my kind, good friend. Many thanks about the picture, which if I survive you, and this I do not expect, shall be hung in my study as a perpetual memento of you.^[1]