I am never ill. I take my human frailty out in never being very well—never equal to much fatigue.
London 1861.
My dinner at Millais' yesterday was very pleasant. I like him extremely, and his wife appears an agreeable person. I met there John Leech, the man who does all those admirable caricatures in Punch—he is a very pleasant and gentleman-like person.
I don't feel sure whether I told you that I am about shortly to send my "Paris and Juliet" with the "Samson" to America on spec. Mrs. Kemble will do all she can to godmother them; I got a very kind letter from her from Boston the other day—she has asked me to send her a little sketch of Westbury with the pictures—of course I shall.
The following letters from Mrs. Fanny Kemble reveal the interest which this friend took in Leighton and his pictures, also the genius of the writer in penning delightful epistles:—
Revere House, Boston,
Friday, December 9, 1861.
Dear Mr. Leighton,—It was very kind and amiable of you to write to me of Westbury and my sister; you cannot imagine the forlornness one feels when, to the loss of the sight of those one loves, is added that bitter silence which leaves one almost ignorant, as death does, of all the conditions in which our friends remain. God knows, written words are a poor substitute for the sound of a voice and the look of living eyes; still, when they are all that can reach us of those towards whom our hearts yearn, it is miserable not to be able to obtain them. The friends with whom I constantly correspond see and know little or nothing of her, and so no one of them can in any degree supply me with the news that I most desire from across the sea—how it is faring with my sister; so I am very grateful to you for your intelligence, which was just what I would give anything for (though not in itself, perhaps, very satisfactory) out here, where I think you have none of you an idea how banished I feel. Now, my dear Mr. Leighton, to your business, about which I began my inquiries almost immediately after my return to this country, but only received the last of these communications last night, and you perceive the other was incomplete without it. You must command me entirely in any and every thing that I can do to forward your aims, and I will promise to be severe in my obedience to any instructions you may like to give me. New York is undoubtedly a better market for pictures, and therefore a better place to exhibit them than this, but I do not know anybody whom I trust there. Mr. Ordway, however, seems inclined to take charge of your pictures if they are exhibited there.
Good-bye. Do not fail to employ me in this matter to the fullest extent that I can be of the least use to you; it will be a great pleasure to me to help you in any way that I possibly can.—Yours very truly,
Fanny Kemble.
I wish you would send me out some sketch of Westbury with your pictures, if they come. I wish for one very much. I wish you could see the world here just now—a sky as pure and brilliant as it is possible to conceive, and every bough, branch, blade of grass and withered leaf coated with clear crystal and blazing with prismatic colours. There are, every now and then, sentiments in this sky that I have seen in none other. There are certain points of view in which Boston, rising beyond broad sheets of water that repeat them still more tenderly, seems to me worthy of a great painter. But do not come out and try unless you are quite sure of going back, or you will break your heart.