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[[left side]]
During the week I made six paintings I saved until [[strikethrough]] the [[/strikethrough]] last the smallest panel, and "just as the sun went down," made a sketch that is way ahead of the former [[strikethrough]]s[[/strikethrough]]. It was a better subject. The sun sank into the copper colored horizon casting a wonderful Turner glow over everything, bits of reddish cloud chased over the luminous sky, making splendid accents, and emphasizing the threads of copper, and lemon yellow clouds that floated high, and [[strikethrough]] quietly [[/strikethrough]] slowly above all.  Everything was still, and [[strikethrough]] all was [[/strikethrough]] glowing. Even the shipping seemed to stop, and admire. The rough bargemen ceased swearing and yelling. All were one, and [[strikethrough]] there [[/strikethrough]] exclaiming that never had a finer sunset been seen along the river — I was right in it.

The sun sank, (but my spirit did not.) and gradually the golds, greens browns, and reds lowered themselves, following with the sun across the lonely but facinating [[fascinating]] water, to be spread I hoped, and felt sure, in the same way before you, five hours later.

The distance[[strikethrough]]d[[/strikethrough]] seemed, between us then to be short; to me, home always seems 


[[right side]]
Turner gallery. His last works in color can only be compared to the most beautiful shells of the sea. Each sketch, and every picture is a gem: They are finer in color than nature. They all are creations of a strange mind, a mind that must have been absorbed in dreaming, and painting. Each painting is a fairy-land, or a Paradise. It is interesting to note his advance in color, and drawing; to see how gradually he leaves nature; realizam [[realism]]; and becomes a builder of worlds, and scenes, that appear to drift in the mellow sunny air one and all of us some day wish to breath [[breathe]].

From the Turner's I went to my studio on the River. It is a floating peir [[pier]]. One of many belonging to the Thames Conservancy. The Master, a friendly-old man who now has one little room set apart for "that young American". He seems to think we Americans are an energetic lot, tells me that I'll have to charter a liner to take my paintings of the Thames home. I have already met his wife, children, and dogs. All came down to the float in their best clothes to see me.