I am distressed at finding you do not receive my letters. This I am assured of, you will take it for granted I have written, as I never claimed from your duty those kind attentions you have always shown me from friendship and affection; and therefore could not be guilty of enjoying your entertaining letters without offering my thanks. Lady Rumbold gives a ball to-night. Mrs. Dott and Mrs. —— have already done so. The latter gave hers on the christening of her little boy. The tenants dined with them next day, and Mr. —— made a speech of extraordinary length, in which he talked of his tenantry and his ancestry in as pompous a style as if he were of the line of Plantagenet, and possessed of half a province. It is curious to observe how much more flattered people seem to be by standing on the lower steps of the pyramid than by perching near the pinnacle. A little height above our fellows seems to give more pleasure than a great elevation.
As you rise in the scale of language I descend, for I do not recollect enough of German even to decypher the short story you have sent to me. It is as completely locked up from me as if it were written in modern Greek—of which, by the bye, I am quite tired. Every one is prating and writing and publishing about Greece and modern Greek. Have you read Leake’s Researches? He is, you know, a brother diplomat. The Edinburgh Review for February, 1815, has minced him up in a very amusing way. The dish is pungent, and excites appetite, but not for Mr. Leake’s book. Lord —— is going to marry Mrs. ——, a fat, fair, and fifty card-playing resident of the Crescent. They each received anonymous letters abusive of the other, compared them, and became better friends than ever.
TO THE SAME.
Bursledon Lodge, March 5, 1816.
The objection you make to Roderick struck me forcibly, though late. Perhaps in description of country scenery it excels every poem except The Seasons; and some of the finer feelings of the heart are admirably portrayed, both in their sources, progress, and consequences. I think the hinge on which the poem turns is radically ignoble, and forms its principal defect. It is in parts highly pathetic. From the time Florinda and Roderick join Count Julian till her death, I know nothing more affecting. In short, it is a fine epic; and I believe I prefer it to any poetical work by any living author. I am not surprised it is not much admired as yet; and I found a few lines to-day in Dryden which seem so applicable to the subject that I will copy them here:—
‘A well-weighed, judicious poem, which at its first appearance gains no more upon the world than to be just received, and rather not blamed than much applauded, insinuates itself by insensible degrees into the liking of the reader; and whereas poems which are produced by the vigour of imagination only have a gloss upon them at first which time wears off, the works of judgment are like the diamond, the more they are polished the more lustre they receive.’
I cannot think why I have copied this, as I am very angry when I receive a word in your letters not your own.