e
past and the future? Well, it was just then that your letter and your
photograph were brought to me in bed; and there came to me at once the
most agreeable sense of triumph. My books were still young; my words had
their good health and could go about the world and make themselves
welcome; and even (in a shadowy and distant sense) make something in the
nature of friends for the sheer hulk that stays at home and bites his
pen over the manuscripts. It amused me very much to remember that I had
been in Chicago, not so many years ago, in my proper person; where I had
failed to awaken much remark, except from the ticket collector; and to
think how much more gallant and persuasive were the fellows that I now
send instead of me, and how these are welcome in that quarter to the
sitter of Herr Platz, while their author was not very welcome even in
the villainous restaurant where he tried to eat a meal and rather
failed.

And this leads me directly to a confession. The photograph which shall
accompany this is not chosen as the most like, but the best-looking.
Put yourself in my place, and you will call this pardonable. Even as it
is, even putting forth a flattered presentment, I am a little pained;
and very glad it is a photograph and not myself that has to go; for in
this case, if it please you, you can tell yourself it is my image--and
if it displease you, you can lay the blame on the photographer; but in
that, there were no help, and the poor author might belie his labours.

_Kidnapped_ should soon appear; I am afraid you may not like it, as it
is very unlike _Prince Otto_ in every way; but I am myself a great
admirer of the two chief characters, Alan and David. _Virginibus
Puerisque_ has never been issued in the States. I do not think it is a
book that has much charm for publishers in any land; but I am to bring
out a new edition in England shortly, a copy of which I must try to
remember to send you. I say try to remember, because I have some
superficial acquaintance with myself: and I have determined, after a
galling discipline, to promise nothing more until the day of my death:
at least, in this way, I shall no more break my word, and I must now try
being churlish instead of being false.

I do not believe you to be the least like Seraphina. Your photograph has
no trace of her, which somewhat relieves me, as I am a good deal afraid
of Seraphinas--they do not always go into the woods and see the sunrise,
and some are so w