n (then in all the glory of his Cimabue
picture, and in the promise of even a greater career than he finally
attained), Millais, Val Prinsep, and Boyce. I had brought letters from
Lowell to Tom Hughes, from Norton to Arthur Hugh Clough, from Agassiz
to Professor Owen. Hughes introduced me to the Cosmopolitan Club,
where I made the acquaintance, amongst others whom I do not remember,
of Millais and Monckton Milnes.

The artists who came seemed to be interested in my work, especially
in the "Bed of Ferns," of which Rossetti--whose opinion I valued more
than any other, for he was very honest and blunt in his criticisms,
and not at all inclined to flattery--expressed himself in strong terms
of praise. As it was the first thing in which I had attempted to
introduce a human interest in the landscape, I was naturally inclined
to consider it my most important work, and I was dismayed when Ruskin
came to see me, and, in a tone of extreme disgust, said, pointing to
the dead deer and man: "What do you put that stuff in for? Take it
out; it stinks!" My reverence for Ruskin's opinion was such that I
made no hesitation in painting out the central motive of the picture,
for which both subject and effect of light had been selected.
Unfortunately, I habitually used copal varnish as a medium. When
Rossetti called again, he asked me, with a look of dismay, what I had
done to my picture. I explained to him that on Ruskin's advice I
had painted out the figures, and exclaiming, "You have spoiled your
picture!" he walked out of the room in a rage. However, I sent it to
the Academy as it was, and had it back, "Not hung, for want of room,"
or something equivalent. I then tried to remove the pigment which hid
my figures; but the varnish was refractory, and, after a vain attempt,
I finally cut the picture up and stuck it in the fire.

The incident, though it cost me the work of three months, and was
in fact the only important outcome of the summer's study, did not
diminish my confidence in Ruskin's judgment and correct feeling for
art. It required a still more severe experience. As all the world
knows, that knows anything of Ruskin's ways with artists, he was blunt
and outspoken in his criticisms, and not in the least tender of their
feelings, unless indeed they happened to be women. Knowing this, I
took his praise for certain studies and drawings I had brought with
me as a patent of ability; and though I was never extravagant in my
opinion of