SARANAC LAKE, Winter, 1887-8.
MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,—It may please you to know how our family
has been employed. In the silence of the snow the afternoon
lamp has lighted an eager fireside group; my mother reading,
Fanny, Lloyd, and I devoted listeners; and the work was
really one of the best works I ever heard; and its author is
to be praised and honoured; and what do you suppose is the
name of it? and have you ever read it yourself? and (I am
bound I will get to the bottom of the page before I blow the
gaff, if I have to fight it out on this line all summer; for
if you have not to turn a leaf, there can be no suspense,
the conspectory eye being swift to pick out proper names;
and without suspense, there can be little pleasure in this
world, to my mind at least), and, in short, the name of it
is _Roderick Hudson_, if you please. My dear James, it is
very spirited, and very sound, and very noble too. Hudson,
Mrs. Hudson, Rowland, O, all first-rate: Rowland a very fine
fellow; Hudson as good as he can stick (did you know Hudson? I
suspect you did), Mrs. H. his real born mother, a thing rarely
managed in fiction.
We are all keeping pretty fit and pretty hearty; but this
letter is not from me to you, it is from a reader of R. H. to
the author of the same, and it says nothing, and has nothing
to say but thank you.
We are going to re-read _Casamassima_ as a proper pendant.
Sir, I think these two are your best, and care not who knows
it.
May I beg you, the next time _Roderick_ is printed off, to
go over the sheets of the last few chapters, and strike out
'immense' and 'tremendous'? You have simply dropped them there
like your pocket-handkerchief; all you have to do is to pick
them up and pouch them, and your room—what do I say?—your
cathedral! will be swept and garnished.—I am, dear sir, your
delighted reader,