When you were in this country last year, I told you not to forget me;
and you promised that you would not; yet I doubt not that when you see
the signature to this, memory will have much ado to call up the person
who writes. Nevertheless I cannot forbear—even at the distance of time
which has since elapsed, and the distance of space which
intervenes—from telling you how much delighted I have been with your
Maid of Elnar. I have not seen the whole; but various passages in
various reviews, have shown me so much surpassing beauty, that I do
not wait even till I have been delighted with the whole, to tell you
how great has been the pleasure I have felt from a part.
I do not know very well how or why, but I have been lately sickening
of poetry; and though once as great a dreamer as ever felt the sweet
music of imagination in his heart of hearts, within the last four or
five years I have found it all flat, stale, and unprofitable; and
began to fancy myself a devout adorer of dull prose. I thank you then
for showing me that there is still such a thing as poetry; and it
would not at all surprise me to feel myself—after reading the Maid of
Elnar through—taking the top of the wave, and going over every poet
again from Chaucer to Byron. Can you tell me what it is that causes
such a strange revolution in tastes? I declare for the last five years
since the Byron mania was upon me, I have looked upon poetry as the
most sappy, senseless misapplication of good words, that ever the
whimsical folly of the universal fool, mankind, devised. A spark or
two of the old faggot was rekindled in my heart about six weeks ago,
by hearing a sonnet of Wordsworth’s read aloud; and that I believe
induced me to read the extracts from your book; and now I am all
ablaze. What I like in the various scattered passages of the Maid of
Elnar, would be endless to tell without writing a review; but there is
something throughout the whole which has enchanted me—a mingling of
the fine spirit of old chivalry, with the sweet home feeling of calm
happy nature that is something newer than even Spenser. As Oliver
Cromwell used to say, I would say something—Ay verily—but I won’t for
fear you should think me exaggerating and therefore I will bid you
farewell. It is natural of course for me to hate you; for every author
is bound to detest any other person who writes what is good. I would
therefore fain pay you that compliment, but your book will not let me;
and I must beg you to believe me
Ever yours most truly
G. P. R. JAMES.
I send this to your Bookseller, because I do not know where else to
send it; and I pay it, because many a good wholesome letter which has
been addressed to the care of mine, has never reached me for want of
that precaution on the part of my correspondents. Before the letter
reaches you, I shall have got and read the whole book; and by heaven,
if the rest does not come up to the extracts, I shall either lampoon
you or your critics.
Another letter to Cunningham follows:
MAXPOFFLE NEAR MELROSE ROXBURGHSHIRE
17th May 1833.