Yesterdays with Authors by James T. Fields

J >> James T. Fields >> Yesterdays with Authors

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35

God bless you all, dear friends.

Ever most affectionately yours, M.R.M.

Swallowfield, September 24, 1852

My Very Dear Mr. Fields: I am beginning to get very fidgety about
you, and thinking rather too often, not only of the breadth of the
Atlantic, but of its dangers. However I must hear soon, and I write
now because I am expecting a fellow-townsman of yours, Mr. Thompson,
an American artist, who expected to find you still in England, and
who is welcomed, as I suppose all Boston would be ... People do not
love you the less, dear friend, for missing you.

I write to you this morning, because I have something to say and
something to ask. In the first place, I am better. Mr. Harness, who,
God bless him, left that Temple of Art, the Deepdene, and Mr. Hope's
delightful conversation, to come and take care of me, stayed at
Swallowfield three weeks. He found out a tidy lodging, which he has
retained, and he promises to come back in November; at present he is
again at the Deepdene. Nothing could be so judicious as his way of
going on; he came at two o'clock to my cottage and we drove out
together; then he went to his lodgings to dinner, to give me three
hours of perfect quiet; at eight he and the Russells met here to
tea, and he read Shakespeare (there is no such reader in the world)
till bedtime. Under his treatment no wonder that I improved, but the
low-fever is not far off; doing a little too much, I fell back even
before his departure, and have been worse since. However, on the
whole, I am much better.

Now to my request. You perhaps remember my speaking to you of a copy
of my "Recollections," which was in course of illustration in the
winter. Mr. Holloway, a great print-seller of Bedford Street, Covent
Garden, has been engaged upon it ever since, and brought me the
first volume to look at on Tuesday. It would have rejoiced the soul
of dear Dr. Holmes. My book is to be set into six or seven or eight
volumes, quarto, as the case may be; and although not unfamiliar
with the luxuries of the library, I could not have believed in the
number and richness of the pearls which have been strung upon so
slender a thread. The rarest and finest portraits, often many of one
person and always the choicest and the best,--ranging from
magnificent heads of the great old poets, from the Charleses and
Cromwells, to Sprat and George Faulkner of Dublin, of whom it was
thought none existed, until this print turned up unexpectedly in a
supplementary volume of Lord Chesterfield; nothing is too odd for
Mr. Holloway. There is a colored print of George the Third,--a full
length which really brings the old king to life again, so striking
is the resemblance, and quantities of theatrical people, Munden and
Elliston and the Kembles. There are two portraits of "glorious John"
in Penruddock. Then the curious old prints of old houses. They have
not only one two hundred years old of Dorrington Castle, but the
actual drawing from which that engraving was made; and they are rich
beyond anything in exquisite drawings of scenery by modern artists
sent on purpose to the different spots mentioned. Besides which
there are all sorts of characteristic autographs (a capital one of
Pope); in short, nothing is wanting that the most unlimited expense
(Mr. Holloway told me that his employer, a great city merchant of
unbounded riches, constantly urged him to spare no expense to
procure everything that money would buy), added to taste, skill, and
experience, could accomplish. Of course the number of proper names
and names of places have been one motive for conferring upon my book
an honor of which I never dreamt; but there is, besides, an
enthusiasm for my writings on the part of Mrs. Dillon, the lady of
the possessor, for whom it is destined as a birthday gift. Now what
I have to ask of you is to procure for Mr. Holloway as many
autographs and portraits as you can of the American writers whom I
have named,--dear Dr. Holmes, Hawthorne, Longfellow, Whittier,
Prescott, Ticknor. If any of them would add a line or two of their
writing to their names, it would be a favor, and if; being about it,
they would send two other plain autographs, for I have heard of two
other copies in course of illustration, and expect to be applied to
by their proprietors every day. Mr. Holloway wrote to some trade
connection in Philadelphia, but probably because he applied to the
wrong place and the wrong person, and because he limited his
correspondent to time, obtained no results. If there be a print of
Professor Longfellow's house, so much the better, or any other
autographs of Americans named in my book. Forgive this trouble, dear
friend. You will probably see the work when you come to London in
the spring, and then you will understand the interest that I take
in it as a great book of art. Also my dear old friend, Lady Morley
(Gibbon's correspondent), who at the age of eighty-three is caught
by new books and is as enthusiastic as a girl, has commissioned me
to inquire about your new authoress, the writer of ----, who she is
and all about her. For my part, I have not finished the book yet,
and never shall. Besides my own utter dislike to its painfulness,
its one-sidedness, and its exaggeration, I observe that the sort of
popularity which it has obtained in England, and probably in
America, is decidedly _bad_, of the sort which cannot and does not
last,--a cry which is always essentially one-sided and commonly
wrong....

Ever most faithfully and affectionately yours,

M.R.M.

October 5, 1852.

DEAREST MR. FIELDS: You will think that I persecute you, but I find
that Mr. Dillon, for whom Mr. Holloway is illustrating my
Recollections so splendidly, means to send the volumes to the binder
on the 1st of November. I write therefore to beg, in case of your
not having yet sent off the American autographs and portraits, that
they may be forwarded direct to Mr. Holloway, 25 Bedford Street,
Covent Garden, London. It is very foolish not to wait until all the
materials are collected, but it is meant as an offering to Mrs.
Dillon, and I suppose there is some anniversary in the way. Mr.
Dillon is a great lover and preserver of fine engravings; his
collection, one of the finest private collections in the world, is
estimated at sixty thousand pounds. He is a friend of dear Mr.
Bennoch's, who, when I told him the compliment that had been paid to
my work by a great city man, immediately said it could be nobody but
Mr. Dillon. I have twice seen Mr. Bennoch within the last ten days,
once with Mr. Johnson and Mr. Thompson, your own Boston artist, whom
I liked much, and who gave me the great pleasure of talking of you
and of dear Mr. and Mrs. W----, last time with his own good and
charming wife and ----. Only think of ----'s saying that
Shakespeare, if he had lived now, would have been thought nothing
of, and this rather as a compliment to the age than not! But, if you
remember, he printed amended words to the air of "Drink to me only."
Ah, dear me, I suspect that both William Shakespeare and Ben Jonson
will survive him; don't you? Nevertheless he is better than might be
predicated from that observation.

All my domestic news is bad enough. My poor pretty pony keeps his
bed in the stable, with a violent attack of influenza, and Sam and
Fanchon spend three parts of their time in nursing him. Moreover we
have had such rains here that the Lodden has overflowed its banks,
and is now covering the water meadows, and almost covering the lower
parts of the lanes. Adieu, dearest friend.

Ever most faithfully yours, M.R.M.

Swallowfield, October 13, 1852.

More than one letter of mine, dearest friend, crossed yours, for
which I cannot sufficiently thank you. Nobody can better understand
than I do, how very, very glad your own people, and all the good
city, must feel to get you back again,--I trust not to keep; for in
spite of sea-sickness, that misery which during the summer I have
contrived to feel on land, I still hope that we shall have you here
again in the spring. I am impatiently waiting the arrival of
portraits and autographs, and if they do not come in time to bind, I
shall charge Mr. Holloway to contrive that they may be pasted with
the copy of my Recollections to which Mr. Dillon is paying so high
and so costly a compliment. Now I must tell you some news.

First let me say that there is an admirable criticism in one of the
numbers of the Nonconformist, edited by Edward Miall, one of the new
members of Parliament, and certainly the most able of the dissenting
organs, on our favorite poet, Dr. Holmes. Also I have a letter from
Dr. Robert Dickson, of Hertford Street, May Fair, one of the highest
and most fashionable London physicians, respecting my book, liking
Dr. Holmes better than anybody for the very qualities for which he
would himself choose to be preferred, originality and justness of
thought, admirable fineness and propriety of diction, and a power of
painting by words, very rare in any age, and rarest of the rare in
_this_, when vagueness and obscurity mar so much that is high and
pure. I shall keep this letter to _show_ Dr. Holmes, tell him with
my affectionate love. If it were not written on the thickest paper
ever seen, and as huge as it is thick, I would send it; but I'll
keep it for him against he comes to claim it. The description of
spring is, Dr. Dickson says, remarkable for originality and truth.
He thanks me for those poems of Dr. Holmes as if I had written them.
Now be free to tell him all this. Of course you have told Mr.
Hawthorne of the highly eulogistic critique on the "Blithedale
Romance" in the Times, written, I believe, by Mr. Willmott, to whom
I lent the veritable copy received from the author. Another thing
let me say, that I have been reading with the greatest pleasure some
letters on African trees copied from the New York Tribune into
Bentley's Miscellany, and no doubt by Mr. Bayard Taylor. Our chief
London news is that Mrs. Browning's cough came on so violently, in
consequence of the sudden setting in of cold weather, that they are
off for a week or two to Paris, then to Florence, Rome, and Naples,
and back here in the summer. Her father still refuses to open a
letter or to hear her name. Mrs. Southey, suffering also from
chest-complaint, has shut herself up till June. Poor Anne Hatton,
who was betrothed to Thomas Davis, and was supposed to be in a
consumption, is recovering, they say, under the advice of a
clairvoyante. Most likely a broken vessel has healed on the lungs,
or perhaps an abscess. Be what it may, the consequence is happy, for
she is a lovely creature and the only joy of a fond mother. Alfred
Tennyson's boy was christened the other day by the name of Hallam
Tennyson, Mr. Hallam standing to it in person. This is just as it
should be on all sides, only that Arthur Hallam would have been a
prettier name. You know that Arthur Hallam was the lost friend of
the "In Memoriam," and engaged to Tennyson's sister, and that after
his death, and even after her marrying another man, Mr. Hallam makes
her a large allowance.

We have just escaped a signal misfortune; my dear pretty pony has
been upon the point of death with influenza. Would not you have been
sorry if that pony had died? He has, however, recovered under Sam's
care and skill, and the first symptom of convalescence was his
neighing to Sam through the window. You will have found out that I
too am better. I trust to be stronger when you come again, well
enough to introduce you to Mr. Harness, whom we are expecting here
next month. God bless you, my dear and kind friend. I send this
through dear Mr Bennoch, whom I like better and better; so I do Mrs.
Bennoch, and everybody who knows and loves you. Ever, my dear Mr.
Fields,

Your faithful and affectionate friend, M.R.M.

P.S.--October 17. I have kept this letter open till now, and I am
glad I did so. Acting upon the hint you gave of Mr. De Quincey's
kind feeling, I wrote to him, and yesterday I had a charming letter
from his daughter, saying how much her father was gratified by mine,
that he had already written an answer, amounting to a good-sized
pamphlet, but that when it would be finished was doubtful, so she
sent hers as a precursor.

Swallowfield, November 11, 1852.

I write, dearest friend, and although the packet which you had the
infinite goodness to send, has not reached me yet, and may not
possibly before my letter goes,--so uncertain is our railway,--yet
I will write because our excellent friend, Mr. Bennoch, says that he
has sent it off.... You will understand that I am even more obliged
by your goodness about Mr. Dillon's book than by any of the thousand
obligations to myself only. Besides my personal interest, as so
great a compliment to my own work, Mr. Dillon appears to be a most
interesting person. He is a friend of Mr. Bennoch's, from whom I had
his history, one most honorable to him, and he has written to me
since I wrote to you and proposes to come and see me. _You_ must see
him when you come to England, and must see his collection of
engravings. Would not dear Dr. Holmes have a sympathy with Mr.
Dillon? Have you such fancies in America? They are not common even
here; but Miss Skerrett (the Queen's factotum) tells me that the
most remarkable book in Windsor Castle is a De Grammont most richly
and expensively illustrated by George the Fourth, who, with all his
sins as a monarch, was the only sovereign since the Stuarts of any
literary taste.

Here is your packet! O my dear, dear friend, how shall I thank you
half enough! I shall send the parcels to-morrow morning, the very
first thing, to Mr. Holloway. The work is at the binder's, but
fly-leaves have been left for the American packet of which I felt so
sure, although even I could hardly foresee its value. One or two
duplicates I have kept. Tell Mr. Hawthorne that I shall make a dozen
people rich and happy by his autograph, and tell Dr. Holmes I could
not find it in my heart to part with the "Mary" stanza. Never was a
writer who possessed more perfectly the art of doing great things
greatly and small things gracefully. Love to Mr. Hawthorne and to
him.

Poor Daniel Webster! or rather poor America! Rich as she is, she
cannot afford the loss, the greatest the world has known since our
Sir Robert. But what a death-bed, and what a funeral! How noble an
end of that noble life! I feel it the more, hearing and reading so
much about the Duke's funeral, which by dint of the delay will not
cause the slightest real feeling, but will be attended just like
every show, and yet as a show will be gloomy and poor. How much
better to have laid him simply here at Strathfieldsaye, and left it
as a place of pilgrimage,--as Strathfield will be,--although between
the two men, in my mind, there was no comparison; the one was a
genius, the other mere soldier,--pure physical force measured with
intellect the richest and the proudest. I have twenty letters
speaking of him as one of the greatest among the statesmen of the
age. The Times only refuses to do him justice. But when did the
Times do justice to any one? Look how it talks of our Emperor.

Your friend Bayard Taylor came to see me a fortnight ago, just
before he sailed on his tour round the world. I told him the first
of Bentley's reprinting his letters from the New York Tribune; he
had not heard a word of it. He seemed an admirable person, and it is
good to have such travellers to follow with one's heart and one's
earnest good wishes.

Also I have had two packets,--one from Mrs. Sparks, with a nice
letter, and some fresh and glorious autumnal flowers, and a
collection of autumn leaves from your glorious forests. I have
written to thank her. She seems full of heart, and she says that she
drove into Boston on purpose to see you, but missed you. When you do
meet, tell me about her. Also, I have through you, dear friend, a
most interesting book from Mr. Ware. To him, also, I have written,
but tell him how much I feel and prize his kindness, all the more
welcome for coming from a kinsman of dear Mrs. W----. Tell her and
her excellent husband that they cannot think of us oftener or more
warmly than we think of them. O, how I should like to visit you at
Boston! But I should have your malady by the way, and not your
strength to stand it....

God bless you, my dear and excellent friend! I seem to have a
thousand things to say to you, but the post is going, and a whole
sheet of paper would not hold my thanks.

Ever yours, M.R.M.

Swallowfield, November 25, 1852.

My Dear Friend: Your most kind and welcome letter arrived to-day,
two days after the papers, for which I thank you much. Still more do
I thank you for that kind and charming letter, and for its
enclosures. The anonymous poem [it was by Dr. T.W. Parsons] is far
finer than anything that has been written on the death of the Duke
of Wellington, as indeed it was a far finer subject. May I inquire
the name of the writer? Mr. Everett's speech also is superb, and how
very much I prefer the Marshfield funeral in its sublime simplicity
to the tawdry pageantry here! I have had fifty letters from persons
who saw the funeral in St. Paul's, and seen as many who saw that or
the procession, and it is strange that the papers have omitted alike
the great successes and the great failures. My young neighbor, a
captain in the Grenadier Guards (the Duke's regiment), saw the
uncovering the car which had been hidden by the drapery, and was to
have been a great effect, and he says it was exactly what is
sometimes seen in a theatre when one scene is drawn up too soon and
the other is not ready. Carpenters and undertaker's men were on all
parts of the car, and the draperies and ornaments were everywhere
but in their places. Again, the procession waited upwards of an hour
at the cathedral door, because the same people had made no provision
for taking the coffin from the car; again, the sunlight was let into
St. Paul's, mingling most discordantly with the gas, and the naked
wood of screens and benches and board beams disfigured the grand
entrance. In three months' interval they had not time! On the other
hand, the strong points were the music, the effect of which is said
to have been unrivalled; the actual performance of the service,--my
friend Dean Milman is renowned for his manner of reading the funeral
service, he officiated at the burial of Mrs. Lockhart (Sir Walter's
favorite daughter),--and none who were present could speak of it
without tears; the clerical part of the procession, which was a real
and visible mourning pageant in its flowing robes of white with
black bands and sashes; the living branches of laurel and cypress
amongst the mere finery; and, above all, the hushed silence of the
people, always most and best impressed by anything that appeals to
the imagination or the heart.

I suppose you will have seen how England is flooded, and you will
like to hear that this tiny speck has escaped. The Lodden is over
the park, and turns the beautiful water meadows down to
Strathfieldsaye into a no less beautiful lake, two or three times a
week; but then it subsides as quickly as it rises, so there is none
of the lying under water which results in all sorts of pestilential
exhalations, and this cottage is lifted out of every bad influence,
nay, a kind neighbor having had my lane scraped, I walk dry-shod
every afternoon a mile and a half, which is more than I ever
expected to compass again, and for which I am most thankful. But we
have had our own troubles. K---- has lost her father. He was seized
with paralysis and knew nobody, so they desired her not to come, and
Sam went alone to the funeral. After all, _this_ is her home, and
she has pretty well got over her affliction, and the pony is well
again, and strong enough to draw you and me in the spring,--for I am
looking forward to good and happy days again when you shall return
to England.

Your magnificent present for Mr. Dillon's book was quite in time,
dear friend. I had warned them to leave room, and Mr. Holloway and
the binders contrived it admirably. They are most grateful for your
kindness, and most gratefully shall I receive the promised volumes.
I have not yet got "the pamphlet," and am much afraid it is buried
in what Miss De Quincey calls her "father's chaos"; but I have
charming letters from her, and am heartily glad that I wrote. You
have the way (like Mr. Bennoch) of making friends still better
friends, and bringing together those who, without you, would have
had no intercourse. It is the very finest of all the fine arts. Tell
dear Dr. Holmes that the more I hear of him, the more I feel how
inadequate has been all that I have said to express my own feelings;
and tell President Sparks that his charming wife ought to have
received a long letter from me at the same moment with yourself. Mr.
Hawthorne's new work will be a real treat. Tell me if Mr. Bennoch
has sent you some stanzas on Ireland, which have more of the very
highest qualities of Beranger than I have ever seen in English
verse. We who love him shall have to be very proud of dear Mr.
Bennoch. Tell me, too, if our solution of the line, "A
fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind," was the first; and why the
new President is at once called General and talked of as a civilian.
The other President goes on nobly, does he not?

Say everything for me to dear Mr. and Mrs. W---- and all friends.

Ever yours, M.R.M.

Swallowfield, December 14, 1852.

O my very dear friend, how much too kind you are to me, who have
nothing to give you in return but affection and gratitude! Mr.
Bennett brought me your beautiful book on Saturday, and you may
think how heartily we wished that you had been here also. But you
will come this spring, will you not? I earnestly hope nothing will
come in the way of that happiness. Before leaving the subject of our
good little friend, let me say that, talking over our own best
authors and your De Quincey (N.B. The pamphlet has not arrived yet,
I fear it is forever buried in De Quincey's "chaos"),--talking of
these things, we both agreed that there was another author, probably
little known in America, who would be quite worthy of a reprint,
William Hazlitt. Is there any complete edition of his Lectures and
Essays? I should think they would come out well, now that Thackeray
is giving his Lectures. I know that Charles Lamb and Talfourd
thought Hazlitt not only the most brilliant, but the soundest of all
critics. Then his Life of Napoleon is capital, that is, capital for
an English life; the only way really to know the great man is to
read him in the _memoires_ of his own ministers, lieutenants, and
servants; for _he was_ a hero to his _valet de chambre_, the
greatness was so real that it would bear close looking into. And our
Emperor, I have just had a letter from Osborne, from Marianne
Skerrett, describing the arrival of Count Walewski under a royal
salute to receive the Queen's recognition of Napoleon III. She,
Marianne, says, "How great a man that, is, and how like a fairy tale
the whole story!" She adds, that, seeing much of Louis Philippe, she
never could abide him, he was so cunning and so false, not cunning
enough to hide the falseness! Were not you charmed with the bits of
sentiment and feeling that come out all through our hero's Southern
progress? Always one finds in him traits of a gracious and graceful
nature, far too frequent and too spontaneous to be the effect of
calculation. It is a comfort to find, in spite of our delectable
press, ministers are wise enough to understand that our policy is
peace, and not only peace but cordiality. To quarrel with France
would be almost as great a sin as to quarrel with America. What a
set of fools our great ladies are! I had hoped better things of Lord
Carlisle, but to find that long list at Stafford House in female
parliament assembled, echoing the absurdities of Exeter Hall,
leaving their own duties and the reserve which is the happy
privilege of our sex to dictate to a great nation on a point which
all the world knows to be its chief difficulty, is enough to make
one ashamed of the title of Englishwoman. I know a great many of
these committee ladies, and in most of them I trace that desire to
follow the fashion, and concert with duchesses, which is one of the
besetting sins of the literary circles in London. One name did
surprise me, ----, considering that one of her husband's happiest
bits, in the book of his that will live, was the subscription for
sending flannel waistcoats to the negroes in the West Indies; and
that in this present book a certain Mrs. Jellyby is doing just what
his wife is doing at Stafford House!

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35