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had the effect of seeming to enlarge my domain and give me the freedom
of a loose costume. It is three strings to my bow, too.
Well, your butcher is magnificent. He won't stay out of my mind.--I keep
trying to think of some way of getting your account of him into my book
without his being offended--and yet confound him there isn't anything
you have said which he would see any offense in,--I'm only thinking of
his friends--they are the parties who busy themselves with seeing things
for people. But I'm bound to have him in. I'm putting in the yarn about
the Limburger cheese and the box of guns, too--mighty glad Howells
declined it. It seems to gather richness and flavor with age. I have
very nearly killed several companies with that narrative,--the American
Artists Club, here, for instance, and Smith and wife and Miss Griffith
(they were here in this house a week or two.) I've got other chapters
that pretty nearly destroyed the same parties, too.
O, Switzerland! the further it recedes into the enriching haze of time,
the more intolerably delicious the charm of it and the cheer of it
and the glory and majesty and solemnity and pathos of it grow. Those
mountains had a soul; they thought; they spoke,--one couldn't hear it
with the ears of the body, but what a voice it was!--and how real.
Deep down in my memory it is sounding yet. Alp calleth unto Alp!--that
stately old Scriptural wording is the right one for God's Alps and God's
ocean. How puny we were in that awful presence--and how painless it was
to be so; how fitting and right it seemed, and how stingless was the
sense of our unspeakable insignificance. And Lord how pervading were
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