"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.