(July 6, 1852.) Monday Night, or, rather, 2 o'clock Tuesday Morning.
Having just finished Mr. Hawthorne's book, dear Mr. Fields, I shall
get K---- to put it up and direct it so that it may be ready the
first time Sam has occasion to go to Reading, at which time this
letter will be put in the post; so that when you read this, you may
be assured that the precious volumes are arrived at the Paddington
Station, whence I hope they may be immediately transmitted to you.
If not, send for them. They will have your full direction, carriage
paid. I say this, because the much vaunted Great Western is like all
other railways, most uncertain and irregular, and we have lost a
packet of plants this very week, sent to us, announced by letter and
never arrived. Thank you heartily for the perusal of the book. I
shall not name it in a letter which I mean to enclose to Mr.
Hawthorne, not knowing that you mean to tell him, and having plenty
of other things to say to him besides. To you, and only to you, I
shall speak quite frankly what I think. It is full of beauty and of
power, but I agree with ---- that it would not have made a
reputation as the other two books did, and I have some doubts
whether it will not be a disappointment, but one that will soon be
redeemed by a fresh and happier effort. It seems to me too long,
too slow, and the personages are to my mind ill chosen. Zenobia puts
one in mind of Fanny Wright and Margaret Fuller and other unsexed
authorities, and Hollingsworth will, I fear, recall, to English
people at least, a most horrible man who went about preaching peace.
I heard him lecture once, and shall never forget his presumption,
his ignorance, or his vulgarity. He is said to know many languages.
I can answer for his not knowing his own, for I never, even upon the
platform, the native home of bad English, heard so much in so short
a time. The mesmeric lecturer and the sickly girl are almost equally
disagreeable. In short, the only likeable person in the book is
honest Silas Foster, who alone gives one the notion of a man of
flesh and blood. In my mind, dear Mr. Hawthorne mistakes exceedingly
when he thinks that fiction should be based upon, or rather seen
through, some ideal medium. The greatest fictions of the world are
the truest. Look at the "Vicar of Wakefield," look at the "Simple
Story," look at Scott, look at Jane Austen, greater because truer
than all, look at the best works of your own Cooper. It is precisely
the want of reality in his smaller stories which has delayed Mr.
Hawthorne's fame so long, and will prevent its extension if he do
not resolutely throw himself into truth, which is as great a thing
in my mind in art as in morals, the foundation of all excellence in
both. The fine parts of this book, at least the finest, are the
truest,--that magnificent search for the body, which is as perfect
as the search for the exciseman in Guy Mannering, and the burst of
passion in Eliot's pulpit. The plot, too, is very finely
constructed, and doubtless I have been a too critical reader,
because, from the moment you and I parted, I have been suffering
from fever, and have never left the bed, in which I am now writing.
Don't fancy, dear friend, that you had anything to do with this. The
complaint had fixed itself and would have run its course, even
although your ... society has not roused and excited the good
spirits, which will, I think, fail only with my life. I think I am
going to get better. Love to all.
Ever most affectionately yours, M.R.M.