THE WORK HERE referred to is the ‘Literary History of the End of the Eighteenth Century.’
To Mr. Craik.
Windsor,
1st February.
I can scarcely tell you how pleased I am by your letter to-day. I have scarcely had time myself to read the proofs, but I was quaking a little about them, and was on the point of writing to ask what you thought of them. If your opinion is so satisfactory about the first volume, I feel encouraged about the rest, which go upon fresh ground. I was half afraid of the many recent publications about Cowper, Burns, and the elder race. I have the second volume ready to send you, but the labour in preparing it has been immense, not only from the number of people to be taken up but from the difficulty of getting the books. I torment the London Library people, and have to wait, and to suffer, and to get all my notes confused by the sudden impossibility of getting exactly what I want at the time I want it, which is very bewildering. It is almost impossible to get everybody into his or her proper niche, and I am afraid the process of adding and dovetailing, as one after another turns up, will be a tedious business. The Wordsworths, &c., are very delightful work — one knows them by heart and knows what one thinks about them; but imagine me floundering among Godwin’s set, all the grimy citizens of the end of the century and all the novel-writers! This is the real labour of the book. Pray, pray, say exactly what you think about the work — you cannot be too candid, nor can you do me a greater service than by mentioning every objection that occurs to you. About Wordsworth, I am very glad that the tide is turning again, but I think it had fallen a little. I meant to represent the needle of the popular compass as just trembling on the turn. It is curious how this return of appreciation begins really to tell upon Scott. I have not the least objection to cut out what I have said about Ruskin — probably I should have done it of myself, though to say it was a relief to my mind for the moment. You know that an utterance of the kind clears one’s bosom, even if one throws it into the fire the next moment.
I wonder if you could lend me, or give me, a copy of the old edition of Gilchrist’s ‘Blake’? Not the gorgeous new one you showed me, which is too good; and have you any of those men19 of the beginning of the century? This is vague, but I speak in a kind of despair, for their name is legion. I do not believe you will get clear of me under four volumes. Is this very alarming? I must have a chapter on Robert Hall and the Dissenters and the Slave-trade people before I get on to Byron and the upper classes, which I am eager to be at.
But, oh my dear Mr. Craik! how much easier to spin a novel than to read and read — so much that there is very little interest in reading! I have had twice a little brief attack of what I believe people call overwork — a whirring and whizzing in my head which has compelled me to lay it back upon a cushion and do nothing for a whole day. You will have to send me to Venice at Easter to do that book and relieve my mind!
I will bring you the second volume as soon as I can spare a few hours to come to town. In the meantime I have had to leave a little gap at Mary Wollstonecraft, in the impossibility of getting a glance — I want no more — at her books.
This year Mrs. Oliphant took her holiday in Scotland. Her friend Miss FitzMaurice was of the party, with Cyril and the two nieces, who were now beginning to fill the place of daughters in the family. Cecco was in Devonshire reading with a clergyman, and one or two of his letters, or rather extracts from them, are inserted here. There could hardly be any true representation of Mrs. Oliphant’s life which did not show the close and intimate friendship that existed between the mother and son. He never ceased as long as he lived to tell her everything that interested him.
Mrs. Oliphant to F. R. Oliphant.
Invercloy Hotel, Arran,
29th August.
...We came here last night....We had a terrible voyage here. The morning was grey but fair, and we started at eight o’clock for Helensburgh, hoping for good weather; but after we left Greenock it began to rain, and literally poured till we got here in bucketsfull. There was a large cabin, but it was crammed full and no windows open, so that it was very stuffy and various people sick. We went on deck accordingly, in mackintoshes and umbrellas, but got drenched notwithstanding, and passed through the Kyles of Bute without seeing anything but a few misty ghosts of hills. When we got here, after three-quarters of an hour of rather strong sea, it was found that my special boxes had gone astray, and on the return of the steamer from the further stations on the island, Tiddy and I rushed down to see after them. We lost each other, however, on the pier, and while he secured them, going on board by one gangway, I rushed over to the steamboat by another, and was carried off again, with only a light cloak on, and not a penny in my pocket. Fortunately they touch at Corrie, another place on the island, where we were landed in an open boat, and I made my way to the inn, and was received with open arms by a delightful landlady, who wrapped me up in her own fur cloak, gave me a cup of tea, and sent me over here in a waggonette, lending me money to pay the boat, &c. When I asked about the hire of the waggonette, she said, “Never mind. Hoot, ye’ll be coming this way again,” all this without even knowing my name. I got back all right and got dried, but was very cross, till consoled by this charming landlady, whose name is Mrs. Morrison of Corrie — make a note of it should you ever be in these parts.
F. R. Oliphant to Mrs. Oliphant.
Ivybridge,
Sept, 18.
...My work is progressing slowly. In fact, the slowness is a more distinguishing characteristic than the progress. However, if he will go on with Aristotle and Plato, which I am going over at present, I shall not mind my work so much, but Heaven deliver me from the English philosophers and Kant! I have just been reading Heine’s ‘De l’Allemagne,’ a very amusing book, where, speaking of the influence of Kant’s system in literature, &c., in Germany, he says, “Par bonheur, elle ne se mêla pas de la cuisine.” This is my only consolation. The philosophy which colours everything, even in my walks, and reappears in a chaotic state in my dreams, exerts no baneful influence over Mrs. Creed’s cookery. But, alas! we have eaten our last grouse, and there remains but one partridge. We have lately received several presents of game, but I fear there will be no more. The vicar has rather a good system with regard to game. When in want of some, he sends to some one of his young Christian friends who is likely to have some to dispose of, and tells him to remember that beautiful text in the Psalms, “The daughter of Tyre shall be there with a gift, like as the rich also among the people.”...
Sept. 22.
...I am at present engaged in teaching the dachshunds music....I do the solo parts, Herzenfreude takes the soprano in the chorus, Volga the alto, and Kauffmann and Moleskin the bass, while an obbligato accompaniment is supplied by a vagrant hen (we don’t keep poultry) who has established a nest in the bushes in the corner of the garden, from which Mosalinda has stolen all the eggs. The dogs like music better than philosophy, though that also interests them. I discoursed to Moleskin the other day upon the theories of Kant, and he was much interested, but he said Herzenfreude had stolen a bone from the kitchen and he wanted to take it back. He is a dog of very high principles. The bone was afterwards found in his kennel, but he says that Kauffmann put it there....I think this extract from a western newspaper pretty nearly beats the record (slang again) for confusion of metaphors: “He [Sir Stafford Northcote] is a statesman, the blaze of whose parliamentary escutcheon has never yet been dimmed by the bar-sinister of inconsistency.” What do you think of that?
Oct, 29.
...Kauffman has gone up to Oxford to matriculate at Keble College, where he is to live with a Mr. Moore, a don. His last appearance here was in a council of war held by me and the dogs with regard to the proceedings of the black beetles. The other night as I was going upstairs to bed I encountered on the staircase a very Arabi of black beetles, who dashed out of his hole at me. As somebody says in ‘Hypatia,’ I considered of the lawfulness of the act, not being a man of blood. Nevertheless, we were on the staircase together, and I smote him. But my troubles were not yet over. On reaching the landing I saw and crushed another beetle, but as I looked round in triumph a perfect army charged from under the linen-press, and I retired to my room precipitately. But not for long. In a few minutes I emerged with my shooting-boots on, and the way I waltzed around that landing was (to put it in unrefined language) a caution. The charge of the Household Cavalry at Kassassin, the attack of the Highland brigade at Tel-el Kebir, was nothing to it. The landing was simply heaped with the bodies of the slain. But the beetles were not defeated, and fresh hordes soon made their appearance, and it was to provide against their absolutely overrunning the house that I summoned this council. Present were Sieglinda, Volga, Mosalica, Kauffmann, and Moleskin. I opened the proceedings by a neat speech, in which I was careful to impress on my hearers that I was not at war with the black beetles....Finally, it was decided to present a joint note to Mrs. Creed on the subject. Our deliberation seems to have had some effect, as I observed that last night the black beetles held a council of the notables on the mat at the foot of the stairs. Kauffmann is really a great diplomatist. During the early part of my stay here he distinguished himself greatly in this line. He observed that his brother, Moleskin, was treated with great attention by everybody because of his shyness, which we were trying to overcome, while Kauffman himself, who is a great lump of a puppy endowed with obtrusive animal spirits, was not the object of any such devotion. He thought that he too would like to hear the dulcet accent of the fair Bertie Bidder, coaxing him to come and speak to her, and so he at last excogitated a scheme worthy of Prince Bismarck or M. Alexandre Dumas. He pretended to be Moleskin. Having once convinced himself that that ingenuous youth was safely occupied with a bone in the garden, he entered the dining-room with a timid air, and when addressed stood still and trembled, and turned his ears inside out, after the manner of his brother. Aided by the close resemblance between the two, the deception entirely succeeded, and was not discovered till after some days, during which we had all been flattering ourselves that Moleskin was becoming civilised at last, while all the time we had been lavishing undeserved caresses on the wily Kauffmann. He is, however, a worthy little dog, and deserves the esteem of every one for his many good qualities of heart and head. On the night before he went away, the vicar, contrary to custom, kept Moleskin in the house for fear that old Channing, the old groom, would send him away instead of Kauffmann, which would have been a great mistake, as Moleskin is far the finer dog, though his shape is as yet far from perfect....
Nov, I.
...Tell Tiddy that ever since I left Westward Ho, as throughout the time I was there, I have been unable to get out of my head the tune of “We’ll all go a-hunting to-day.” But to-day all S. Devon is singing it, for is it not the great day on which the Dartmoor hounds meet for the first time? The scene described in the song I allude to, of the parson hurrying off after a wedding service to hunt, would exactly suit the vicar to-day. Today being All Saints’ Day — the only saint’s day which he observes — there was an early service before breakfast, a sort of hunting mass, after which, to save time, he breakfasted in his cassock, then disappeared for a few minutes, and returned entirely transmogrified from the priest of the sanctuary to the sportsman eager for the chase. When he goes out cub-hunting he appears in a costume which is parsonic but shabby, but to-day he was in his braws, and presented such a fine sportsmanlike appearance that he might have been taken for Mr. Mildmay’s underkeeper. To add a grotesque shade to the proceedings, he has to hurry back early for a funeral at half-past four, which seems to me a kind of grim satire on the whole business.
Mrs Oliphant to Mr. W. Blackwood.
Windsor,
31st October.
I want you to tell me what sort of paper you want from me for December. There is a foolish story going about that the Glamis mystery has been cleared up by the death of an old man, either a criminal or a monster, who has been living all this time in the secret chamber. I think it is simply nonsense, but it would not be at all a bad subject for a short story to be called “The True Story of a Haunted House.” Would you like this, or do you think it would approach too nearly to the supposed story, or would give the Strathmore family reason to complain? I don’t see that it should do so, and I shall of course take care to vary the circumstances. Or would you prefer a New Books article, or what? Give me my orders, and I will carry them out.
I hope you are better, and resisting the depressing influence of the wet weather. We are in the floods here, though fortunately our little Crescent always stands high and dry....
I heard from Mrs. Laurence Oliphant the other day, from an island in the Sea of Marmora which sounds captivating. They seem to be getting along very happily; but I daresay you hear from Laurence often. I am very fond of her. By the way, I don’t think I have proof of next number of the ‘Ladies.’
Windsor,
2nd November.
...I wish very much to review Mr. Howell’s the American novelist’s books with a reference to American books and magazines generally. This perhaps would require rather more research and consideration than there is time for for December, but I should be glad to do it for January, and to do my best to put these Jacobs of literature on their true level. I think fashion is going too far in this respect.
I do not see my way to getting my Leopardi ready before the beginning of the year. Cyril, like all inexperienced writers, has got a mass of material accumulated through which at present he is floundering, not seeing how to get it into bounds; but he is hoping to send the first portion, which of course he left to the last, ready soon....We concluded, I think, that one volume more would be enough, which I thought I might perhaps do myself; but if you think that would be too much of me at the end, we might look out for another. I thought of the Great Preachers of France, taking Bossuet and Fénelon. This, I think, would complete the twenty volumes. Of course if Sir Theodore could be got to do that Heine instead, it would be much better.
Windsor,
1st December.
Leslie Stephen, as you will know, has retired from the ‘Cornhill,’ and Mr. Payn the novelist has got it. He writes to me that he means to make it more popular — that is, to have more fiction in it, which I think is a mistake; but, however, as it is favourable to my own trade, I have no right to object. I think you are very wise, however, not to yield to temptation in this way. I have not had time to look at this month’s Magazine yet...
I am looking out upon a fog which one could cut with a knife, though it is white, not yellow-bluish like those in London, and am perfectly stupid with cold in the head — most uninteresting of maladies. I loathe this time of the year: when we have turned the corner of Christmas one can bear it better. I am very glad to hear you have recovered your vigour, but hope you will be careful about that dangerous delight of hunting.