except it has the filmy morning mist breathing itself
up from the water). And there is such a grave
analytical profundity in the faces of “The Connoisseurs;”
and such pathos in the picture of the fawn suckling
its dead mother, on a snowy waste, with only the blood
in the footprints to hint that she is not asleep.
And the way he makes animals absolute flesh and blood—insomuch
that if the room were darkened ever so little and
a motionless living animal placed beside a painted
one, no man could tell which was which.
I interrupted myself here, to drop a line to Shirley
Brooks and suggest a cartoon for Punch. It was
this. In one of the Academy salons (in the suite
where these pictures are), a fine bust of Landseer
stands on a pedestal in the centre of the room.
I suggest that some of Landseer’s best known
animals be represented as having come down out of their
frames in the moonlight and grouped themselves about
the bust in mourning attitudes.
Well, old man, I am powerful glad to hear from you
and shall be powerful glad to see you and Harmony.
I am not going to the provinces because I cannot
get halls that are large enough. I always felt
cramped in Hanover Square Rooms, but I find that everybody
here speaks with awe and respect of that prodigious
place, and wonder that I could fill it so long.
I am hoping to be back in 20 days, but I have so much
to go home to and enjoy with a jubilant joy, that
it seems hardly possible that it can ever come to
pass in so uncertain a world as this.
I have read the novel—[The Gilded Age,
published during his absence,
December, 1873.]—here, and I like it.
I have made no inquiries about
it, though. My interest in a book ceases with
the printing of it.
With
a world of love,
SAML.
Letters 1874. Hartford and Elmira.
A new study. Beginning “Tom
Sawyer.” The Sellers play.
Naturally Redpath would not give him any peace now.
His London success must not be wasted. At first
his victim refused point-blank, and with great brevity.
But he was overborne and persuaded, and made occasional
appearances, wiring at last this final defiant word:
Telegram to James
Redpath, in Boston:
Hartford,
March 3, 1874.
James Redpath,—Why don’t
you congratulate me?
I never expect to stand on a lecture platform again
after Thursday night.
Mark.
That he was glad to be home again
we may gather from a letter sent
at this time to Doctor Brown, of Edinburgh.
To Dr. John Brown,
in Edinburgh:
