To W. D. Howells.
CAMBRIDGE, Apr. 12, 1891.
My dear Howells,—You made me what seemed at the time a most reckless invitation at the Childs' one day—you probably remember it. It seemed to me improper then to take it up. But it has lain rankling in my mind ever since; and now, as the spring weather makes a young man's fancy lightly turn away from the metaphysical husks on which he has fed exclusively all winter to some more human reading, I say to myself, Why shouldn't I have copies, from the Author himself, of "Silas Lapham" and of the "Minister's Charge"—which by this time are almost the only things of yours which I have never possessed? Take this as thou wilt!...
To W. D. Howells.
CAMBRIDGE, June 12, 1891.
My dear Howells,—You are a sublime and immortal genius! I have just read "Silas Lapham" and "Lemuel Barker"—strange that I should not have read them before, after hearing my wife rave about them so—and of all the perfect works of fiction they are the perfectest. The truth, in gross and in detail; the concreteness and solidity; the geniality, humanity, and unflagging humor; the steady way in which it keeps up without a dead paragraph; and especially the fidelity with which you stick to the ways of human nature, with the ideal and the un-ideal inseparably beaten up together so that you never give them "clear"—all make them a feast of delight, which, if I mistake not, will last for all future time, or as long as novels can last. Silas is the bigger total success because it deals with a more important story (I think you ought to have made young Corey angrier about Irene's mistake and its consequences); but the work on the much obstructed Lemuel surely was never surpassed. I hope his later life was happy!
Altogether you ought to be happy—you can fold your arms and write no more if you like. I've just got your "Criticism and Fiction," which shall speedily be read. And whilst in the midst of this note have received from the postman your clipping from Kate Field's "Washington," the author of which I can't divine, but she's a blessed creature whoever she is. Yours ever,
WM. JAMES.
To Mrs. Henry Whitman.
CAMBRIDGE, June 20, 1891.