I took lodgings in Charles Street, Middlesex Hospital, near Wehnert, and worked hard.  I had brought my “Bed of Ferns,” a large study from nature on Saranac Lake, and one or two smaller studies.  I had visits from Dante Rossetti, Leighton (then in all the glory of his Cimabue picture, and in the promise of even a greater career than he finally attained), Millais, Val Prinsep, and Boyce.  I had brought letters from Lowell to Tom Hughes, from Norton to Arthur Hugh Clough, from Agassiz to Professor Owen.  Hughes introduced me to the Cosmopolitan Club, where I made the acquaintance, amongst others whom I do not remember, of Millais and Monckton Milnes.

The artists who came seemed to be interested in my work, especially in the “Bed of Ferns,” of which Rossetti—­whose opinion I valued more than any other, for he was very honest and blunt in his criticisms, and not at all inclined to flattery—­expressed himself in strong terms of praise.  As it was the first thing in which I had attempted to introduce a human interest in the landscape, I was naturally inclined to consider it my most important work, and I was dismayed when Ruskin came to see me, and, in a tone of extreme disgust, said, pointing to the dead deer and man:  “What do you put that stuff in for?  Take it out; it stinks!” My reverence for Ruskin’s opinion was such that I made no hesitation in painting out the central motive of the picture, for which both subject and effect of light had been selected.  Unfortunately, I habitually used copal varnish as a medium.  When Rossetti called again, he asked me, with a look of dismay, what I had done to my picture.  I explained to him that on Ruskin’s advice I had painted out the figures, and exclaiming, “You have spoiled your picture!” he walked out of the room in a rage.  However, I sent it to the Academy as it was, and had it back, “Not hung, for want of room,” or something equivalent.  I then tried to remove the pigment which hid my figures; but the varnish was refractory, and, after a vain attempt, I finally cut the picture up and stuck it in the fire.

The incident, though it cost me the work of three months, and was in fact the only important outcome of the summer’s study, did not diminish my confidence in Ruskin’s judgment and correct feeling for art.  It required a still more severe experience.  As all the world knows, that knows anything of Ruskin’s ways with artists, he was blunt and outspoken in his criticisms, and not in the least tender of their feelings, unless indeed they happened to be women.  Knowing this, I took his praise for certain studies and drawings I had brought with me as a patent of ability; and though I was never extravagant in my opinion of my own capacities for art, his approbation of some things that I had done, and his assurance of a respectable attainment if I followed the best methods of study, encouraged me, and I took it without question that the methods were his, and it was a costly experience which undeceived me.