_E.B.B. to R.B._
[Post-mark, August 13, 1845.]
Yes, I admit that it was stupid to read that word so wrong. I thought
there was a mistake somewhere, but that it was _yours_, who had
written one word, meaning to write another. 'Cower' puts it all right
of course. But is there an English word of a significance different
from 'stamp,' in 'stomp?' Does not the old word King Lud's men
stomped withal, claim identity with our 'stamping.' The _a_ and _o_
used to 'change about,' you know, in the old English writers--see
Chaucer for it. Still the 'stomp' with the peculiar significance, is
better of course than the 'stamp' even with a rhyme ready for it, and
I dare say you are justified in daring to put this old wine into the
new bottle; and we will drink to the health of the poem in it. It _is_
'Italy in England'--isn't it? But I understand and understood
perfectly, through it all, that it is _unfinished_, and in a rough
state round the edges. I could not help seeing _that_, even if I were
still blinder than when I read 'Lower' for 'Cower.'
But do not, I ask of you, speak of my 'kindness' ... my
kindness!--mine! It is 'wasteful and ridiculous excess' and
mis-application to use such words of me. And therefore, talking of
'compacts' and the 'fas' and 'nefas' of them, I entreat you to know
for the future that whatever I write of your poetry, if it isn't to be
called 'impertinence,' isn't to be called 'kindness,' any more, ... _a
fortiori_, as people say when they are sure of an argument. Now, will
you try to understand?
And talking still of compacts, how and where did I break any compact?
I do not see.
It was very curious, the phenomenon about your 'Only a Player-Girl.'
What an un-godlike indifference to your creatures though--your worlds,
breathed away from you like soap bubbles, and dropping and breaking
into russet portfolios unobserved! Only a god for the Epicurean, at
best, can you be? That Miss Cushman went to Three Mile Cross the other
day, and visited Miss Mitford, and pleased her a good deal, I fancied
from what she said, ... and with reason, from what _you_ say. And
'Only a Fiddler,' as I forgot to tell you yesterday, is announced, you
may see in any newspaper, as about to issue from the English press by
Mary Howitt's editorship. So we need not go to America for it. But if
you complain of George Sand for want of art, how could you bear
Andersen, who can see a thing under his eyes and place it under yours,
and take a thought separately into his soul and express it insularly,
but has no sort of instinct towards wholeness and unity; and writes a
book by putting so many pages together, ... just so!--For the rest,
there can be no disagreeing with you about the comparative difficulty
of novel-writing and drama-writing. I disagree a little, lower down in
your letter, because I could not deny (in my own convictions) a
certain proportion of genius to the author of 'Ernest Maltravers,' and
'Alice' (did you ever read those books?), even if he had more
impotently tried (supposing it to be possible) for the dramatic
laurel. In fact his poetry, dramatic or otherwise, is 'nought'; but
for the prose romances, and for 'Ernest Maltravers' above all, I must
lift up my voice and cry. And I read the _Athenæum_ about your Sir
James Wylie who took you for an Italian....
'Poi vi dirò Signor, che ne fu causa
Ch' avio fatto al scriver debita pausa.'--