_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,