Among the creations of living men and women I, for one, feel that I
have two friends at least across the sea, Master Thomas Sawyer and
his companion, Huckleberry Finn. If these are not real boys, then
Dr. Farrar's Eric IS a real boy; I cannot put it stronger. There
is a lady on those distant shores (for she never died of Roman
fever) who I may venture to believe is not unfriendly--Miss Annie
P. Miller--and there is a daughter of Mr. Silas Lapham whom one
cannot readily forget, and there is a beery journalist in a "Modern
Instance," an acquaintance, a distant professional acquaintance,
not a friend. The rest of the fictitious white population of the
States are shadowy to myself; I have often followed their fortunes
with interest, but the details slip my aging memory, which recalls
Topsy and Uncle Remus.
To speak of new friends at home is a more delicate matter. A man
may have an undue partiality for the airy children of his friends'
fancy. Mr. Meredith has introduced me to an amiable Countess, to a
strange country girl named Rhoda, to a wonderful old AEschylean
nurse, to some genuine boys, to a wise Youth,--but that society
grows as numerous as brilliant. Mr. Besant has made us friends
with twins of literary and artistic genius, with a very highly-
cultured Fellow of Lothian, with a Son of Vulcan, with a bevy of
fair but rather indistinguishable damsels, like a group of
agreeable-looking girls at a dance.
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