JUST see what your last letter has done. You wished my “counterfeit presentment.” Here it is. Will you be pleased with it, I wonder?

Had you called on Mrs. W——, as you should have done, you’d have seen a life-size crayon copy of “that same,” which Mrs. W—— had done in Washington. It is considered a superb picture and a perfect copy, which makes it a matter of inferior moment if it is no particular likeness. It was very well for Cromwell to insist, “Paint me as I am;” but for a woman, if the beauty is there, paint her as she is; if not, paint her as she should be.

The photographs I have rejected, destroyed or hid away from sight forever, because of the lack of this essential! This MÜnchen artist kept coaxing: “Look brighter;” “smile;” “don’t look so sad;” “you look as if you had not a friend in the world;” till I tried my best. “There, that is good;” “that will do;” “now”—and he “turned the sun on.” All the same, I am not a picture woman, and I know it. “Why, bless you! of course you don’t make a good photograph.”

“Don’t you know why?” said a friend in Philadelphia a few years ago, ere the brown was silver and the roses had faded; “I can tell you.” I looked an eager inquiry. “When you sit for a picture your face is discharged of all expression, and the glow of the roses can’t be shown in black and white.” But wasn’t he a comforter!

Yes, the home of my childhood, but not the house in which I was born, is gone. I was born in the large old-fashioned house nearest the mill. I think it is now occupied by a Mr. L——. You must have noticed it. It is a pleasant-looking place even now; spoiled as all the Point is by those later houses. When we lived there the houses of my father and grandfather were the only ones for perhaps a quarter of a mile. There were, maybe, a dozen houses in “Newtown,” as it was called then. There was no street except on the river bank in front of our places. The front yards of both were full of grass, plants, flowers and shrubbery. My mother had so many roses, ours was called “The Place of Roses.” Each had large gardens and meadows and orchards. Some of the pear trees are living and flourishing now, over a hundred years old!

I thought seriously of buying the place of my grandfather when I sold my other one; went and looked at it several times, but I was too alone to attempt another home. Now I am sure it was best I did not. You can comprehend how it made my heart ache to hear of that fire. I have not been in the house for years; I think not since my father moved into Maysville, and in all probability would never have been again, but the pain is inevitable.

I have found and read “Les Petites Miseres de la vie Conjugale.” Psha! Don’t you believe him—that ruthless anatomist. I believe I could forgive him if he had not made these “Annoyances” so life-like and comical. I laughed even when I was “boiling over with rage” at his revelations. Wish I was not so indolent; I’d write a counter-statement if I were not! I could, and it would be the God’s truth, just as his is the devil’s truth. But for one thing I’d set you to do that “spiriting.” So unfortunately you lack experience! But why couldn’t you, any way, just as well as “Ike Marvel” wrote “Dream Life?” Did you ever read “the Pendant” to “Les Petites Miseres, Les Menages d’une femme vertuense?” I got it at the same time, and found it intensely interesting as a picture of French character and life. But I must not get on to books, or I shall write all night.

Do you know Christmas is coming? It is so near it takes my breath away to think of it. This is Friday night—and Monday! I’ll catch you anyhow, “My Christmas Gift.” Isn’t that the way you shouted it as you tiptoed round in the early dawn of Christmas morning, when you were a boy? And hadn’t you already hung up your little sock the night before, knowing you would find it stuffed full of “goodies and things?” I had a young bachelor friend in C——, “a fellow of infinite jest,” and much curious and quaint humor. He was alone at home, so I sent for him to dine with us.

“What did you do last night, John? Were you not lonesome? Why did you not come round?”

“Oh! I read awhile! Then I ate apples and nuts. It was lots of fun to roast the apples and hear them sizzle and sputter and burst, to say nothing of the eating and burnt fingers. And you never saw ‘a stoker’ (I think that was the word) beat me at keeping up a fire with my nut-shells. When I got tired, I hung up my sock and went to bed.”

Will you do the like? I hope you will have “the goodies and things,” whether you do or not. Yes, I hope you will have the very best Christmas of all your life. It is to be very “gay and festive” here, and I shall see many novel and magnificent sights. Maybe I’ll tell you about some of them.

A merry Christmas! A happy Christmas! The best Christmas of all your life!

L. G. C.

Munich, December 22, 1882.