"I have encountered a good many of your countrymen here lately, but
have been introduced only to a few. I found Mr. Norton, who has
returned to you, and Mr. Dwight, who is still here, I believe, very
intelligent and agreeable.
"If all Americans were like them and yourself, and if all Englishmen
were like Kenyon and (so far as regards a desire to judge fairly)
myself, I think there would be little or no quarrelling between our
small island and your great continent.
"Our glass palace is a perpetual theme for small-talk. It usurps the
place of the weather, which is turned adrift, or laid up in ordinary
for future use. Nevertheless it (I mean the palace) is a remarkable
achievement, after all; and I speak sincerely when I say, 'All honor
and glory to Paxton!' If the strings of my poor little lyre were not
rusty and overworn, I think I should try to sing some of my nonsense
verses before his image, and add to the idolatry already existing.
"If you have hotter weather in America than that which is at present
burning and blistering us here, you are entitled to pity. If it
continue much longer, I shall be held in solution for the remainder
of my days, and shall be remarkable as 'Oxygen, the poet' (reduced
to his natural weakness and simplicity by the hot summer of 1851),
instead of Your very sincere and obliged
"B.W. PROCTER."
Here is a brief reference to Judd's remarkable novel, forming part of a
note written to me in 1852:--
"Thanks for 'Margaret' (the book, _not_ the woman), that you have
sent me. When will you want it back? and who is the author? There is
a great deal of clever writing in it,--great observation of nature,
and also of character among a certain class of persons. _But_ it is
almost too minute, and for _me_ decidedly too theological. You see
what irreligious people we are here. I shall come over to one of
your camp-meetings and _try_ to be converted. What will they
administer in such a case? brimstone or brandy? I shall try the
latter first."
Here is a letter bearing date "Thursday night, November 25, 1852," in
which he refers to his own writings, and copies a charming song:--
"Your letter, announcing the arrival of the little preface, reached
me last night. I shall look out for the book in about three weeks
hence, as you tell me that they are all printed. You Americans are a
rapid race. When I thought you were in Scotland, lo, you had touched
the soil of Boston; and when I thought you were unpacking my poor
MS., tumbling it out of your great trunk, behold! it is arranged--it
is in the printer's hands--it is _printed_--published--it is--ah!
would I could add, SOLD! That, after all, is the grand triumph in
Boston as well as London.
"Well, since it is not sold yet, let us be generous and give a few
copies away. Indeed, such is my weakness, that I would sometimes
rather give than sell. In the present instance you will do me the
kindness to send a copy each to Mr. Charles Sumner, Mr. Hillard, Mr.
Norton: but no--my wife requests to be the donor to Mr. Norton, so
you must, if you please, write his name in the first leaf and state
that it comes from '_Mrs_. Procter.' I liked him very much when I
met him in London, and I should wish him to be reminded of his
English acquaintance.
"I am writing to you at eleven o'clock at night, after a long and
busy day, and I write _now_ rather than wait for a little
inspiration, because the mail, I believe, starts to-morrow. The
unwilling Minerva is at my elbow, and I feel that every sentence I
write, were it pounded ten times in a mortar, would come out again
unleavened and heavy. Braying some people in a mortar, you know, is
but a weary and unprofitable process.
"You speak of London as a delightful place. I don't know how it may
be in the white-bait season, but at present it is foggy, rainy,
cold, dull. Half of us are unwell and the other half dissatisfied.
Some are apprehensive of an invasion,--not an impossible event; some
writing odes to the Duke of Wellington; and I am putting my good
friend to sleep with the flattest prose that ever dropped from an
English pen. I wish that it were better; I wish that it were even
worse; but it is the most undeniable twaddle. I must go to bed, and
invoke the Muses in the morning. At present, I cannot touch one of
their petticoats.
"A SLEEPY SONG.
"Sing! sing me to sleep!
With gentle words, in some sweet slumberous measure,
Such as lone poet on some shady steep
Sings to the silence in his noonday leisure.
"Sing! as the river sings,
When gently it flows between soft banks of flowers,
And the bee murmurs, and the cuckoo brings
His faint May music, 'tween the golden showers.
"Sing! O divinest tone!
I sink beneath some wizard's charming wand;
I yield, I move, by soothing breezes blown,
O'er twilight shores, into the Dreaming Land!
"I read the above to you when you were in London. It will appear in
an Annual edited by Miss Power (Lady Blessington's niece).
"Friday Morning.
"The wind blowing down the chimney; the rain sprinkling my windows.
The English Apollo hides his head--you can scarcely see him on the
'misty mountain-tops' (those brick ones which you remember in
Portland Place).
"My friend Thackeray is gone to America, and I hope is, by this
time, in the United States. He goes to New York, and afterward I
_suppose_ (but I don't know) to Boston and Philadelphia. Have you
seen _Esmond_? There are parts of it charmingly written. His pathos
is to me very touching. I believe that the best mode of making one's
way to a person's head is--through his heart.
"I hope that your literary men will like some of my little prose
matters. I know that they will _try_ to like them; but the papers
have been written so long, and all, or almost all, written so
hastily, that I have my misgivings. However, they must take their
chance.
"Had I leisure to complete something that I began two or three years
ago, and in which I have written a chapter or two, I should reckon
more surely on success; but I shall probably never finish the thing,
although I contemplated only one volume.
"(If you cannot read this letter apply to the printer's
devil.--Hibernicus.)
"Farewell. All good be with you. My wife desires to be kindly
remembered by you.
"Always yours, very sincerely,
"B.W. PROCTER."
"P.S.--Can you contrive to send Mr. Willis a copy of the prose book?
If so, pray do."