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222 letter 76 To William Dean Howells November 24, [1895] New York City, New York Nov 24 329 E 15thst Dear Mr Howells At last I am noticed, and I have dropped a tear of pure pleasure over what you have written of me, it is lovely.1 I remember you then, as being very young and handsome. I hope no body will “down” you for what you have said, unless it is Stoddard, he dont believe in that word “abhorrant.” Will you let me be a little egotistical? I do not understand why I should be so entirely dead. In all summaries of novels, my name is left out, not long ago Brander Mathews had an article in some magazine on our female novelists and my name was not mentioned.2 In later times, with a view of finding out the ailments of my novels I read them as a sort of outsider, and with all their faults I liked them. I found the poorest work in The Morgesons, the best and sincerest in Temple House, the most berated of all I have written, yet no one discovered that my heroine’s life was one of selfsacrifice , patience and purity—“Why didn’t you put some loveliness into Virginia Brand”3 —I was asked. As for my poems, if you could look into the frequent inexpressible trash which comes here year after year you would not wonder that I believe that my verse has something original and picturesque. I rarely hear of it, and am never certain that any editor will accept it. As for Stoddard as a critic on novels, I have never had much reason to respect him. Until within a few years he did not read novels, he had no interest in that art, he never cared for mine, in his heart never believed in them. When I gave him the MS of my first story to read, he had so little faith in it, in my prose talent, that he went off to read it by himself, and came back to say that it was good enough to offer. Mr Lowell saved me then in the Atlantic—but 223 for him I should probably never have written prose again.4 In verse Stoddard has been magnificently generous, and a wonderful help to me. So if my scalp happens to be sound instead of sore, I trust that what I have written, will not prove the contrary to you. Lorry’s play of Napoleon Bonaparte makes an interesting piece of stage biography.5 Ordered by Mansfield, stopped when nearly done, accepted, rehearsed, thrown over as impossible, accepted again, and is now acted on the road. To quote a dreadful adage—Lorry “bit off more than he could chew,” which I think applied originally to New England marine tobacco chewers. Mansfield wanted all the great episodes in Napoleon’s life for him to star in. So Lorry staid in his company writing and acting, till the first repulse, then he came home with his play and lived peacefully till two months ago, when he made a contract to play in The Amazon and is on the road now.6 There was only a week before Mansfield sent for Napoleon again, and then put it on the stage. It was a misfortune that Lorry could not have rehearsed it, he would have changed a good deal, had he been an experienced playwright, he would not have made7 into episodes. The company was very poor, Marchand the emperor’s valet was delightfully drawn, as acted almost a failure. But I never heard such applause, nor so long, as at the end of the 3rd act and there never was any thing finer than Napoleon’s death on the stage—powerful, quiet, grand. It was the opinion of some old play goers and actors that night, that Mansfield had it in his head to ruin the play, he was so affected and so mad with Lorry, and the contract, but his art overpowered him, and he would not keep rising to the occasion, and—there was too much money in it. Through all this fight Lorry has behaved with so much sense and discretion, and dignity, that his father has actually, warmly praised him. In conclusion Mansfield treats with him by a medium. If this bores you forgive the old mother who remembers your kindness to her boy. What do you mean by “different ideals”—wealth and poverty separates people...

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