Washington, 1861.
MY DEAR FRIEND:
I send you this book1 because it is new — that is
its only recommendation. It sketches with the most miraculous fidelity
characters that are not worth sketching. It reminds me of a satiric cartoon of
a Dutch painter, representing Art knocking in vain at his door, and the artist
within industriously engaged in drawing an old shoe. This woman has wonderful
power but is wasting it on unworthy subjects.
There is something strange, almost startling in this story.
There is not one single character in it who is not below mediocrity in mind,
morals and manners. Yet these people, so drearily commonplace, in actual life,
move us strongly in the book. It is not sympathy with the people; it is
sympathy with the success of the portraits.
When women write books they make young people fall in love
very foolishly. I want to write a novel on common-sense principles and change
all that, some day, when I have grown rich and idle, and have forgotten to-day
and yesterday.
We are very jolly here now, on a warfooting. We are hoping
for a little brush with the traitors, but are very much afraid they will
deprive us of that pleasure.
. . . . I wish I were in Springfield for a little while. I
am afraid to leave here just now, lest I should lose some fun in my absence.
Your friend.
[JOHN HAY.]
_______________
1 George Eliot's Silas Marner.
SOURCES: Clara B. Hay, Letters of John Hay and
Extracts from Diary, Volume 1, p.7-8
No comments:
Post a Comment