"... Perhaps you will be surprised to hear, that of all the lions of
literati that I have seen here, there is not one whose countenance has
not some unpleasant trait. Mary Imlay is the best, infinitely the best.
The only fault in it, is an expression somewhat similar to what the
prints of Horne Tooke display; an expression indicating superiority, not
haughtiness, not conceit, not sarcasm, in Mary Imlay, but still it is
unpleasant. Her eyes are light brown, and though the lid of one of them
is affected by a slight paralysis, they are the most meaning I ever saw.
Her complexion is dark, sun-burnt, and her skin a little cracked, for she
is near forty, and affliction has borne harder on her than years; but her
manners are the most pleasing I ever witnessed, they display warm
feeling, and strong understanding; and the knowledge she has acquired of
men and manners, ornaments, not disguises, her own character. I have
given an unreserved opinion of Mrs. Barbauld to Charles Danvers.
While I was with George Dyer one morning last week, Mary Hayes and Miss
Christal entered, and the ceremony of introduction followed. Mary Hayes
writes in the New Monthly Magazine, under the signature of M. H., and
sometimes writes nonsense there about Helvetius. She has lately published
a novel, 'Emma Courtney,' a book much praised and much abused. I have not
seen it myself, but the severe censure passed on it by persons of narrow
mind, have made me curious, and convinced me that it is at least an
uncommon book. Mary Hayes is an agreeable woman and a Godwinite. Now if
you will read Godwin's book with attention, we will determine between us,
in what light to consider that sectarian title. As for Godwin himself, he
has large noble eyes, and a nose,--oh, most abominable nose! Language is
not vituperative enough to express the effect of its downward elongation.
He loves London, literary society, and talks nonsense about the collision
of mind, and Mary Hayes echoes him.
But Miss Christal, have you seen her Poems? A fine, artless, sensible
girl. Now, Cottle, that word sensible must not be construed here in its
dictionary acceptation. Ask a Frenchman what it means, and he will
understand it, though, perhaps, he can by no circumlocution explain its
French meaning. Her heart is alive. She loves poetry. She loves
retirement. She loves the country. Her verses are very incorrect, and the
literary circle say, she has no genius, but she has genius, Joseph
Cottle, or there is no truth in physiognomy. Gilbert Wakefield came in
while I was disputing with Mary Hayes upon the moral effects of towns. He
has a most critic-like voice, as if he had snarled himself hoarse. You
see I like the women better than the men. Indeed they are better animals
in general, perhaps because more is left to nature in their education.
Nature is very good, but God knows there is very little of it left.
I wish you were within a morning's walk, but I am always persecuted by
time and space. Robert Southey, and law, and poetry, make up an odd kind
of tri-union. We jog on easily together, and I advance with sufficient
rapidity in Blackstone, and 'Madoc.' I hope to finish my poem, and to
begin my practice in about two years.
God bless you.
Yours affectionately,