ÆT. 31.] PUBLICATION OF GERTRUDE. CHAPTER XXIV. PUBLICATION OF GERTRUDE. THE last stanzas of Gertrude of Wyoming were now in type. The proof sheets having been forwarded to Mr. Alison, were shown to one or two judicious friends in Edinburgh, and then returned to the author. It does not appear, however, from anything in my possession, that the poem underwent any material change during this process. The manuscript had been revised with great care at Sydenham; and, when sent to press, was pronounced by very competent judges to be in all respects worthy of the author. This opinion was re-echoed by its admirers in Edinburgh; and, among the commentaries thus elicited, while printing, was the following extract from a letter, addressed to Campbell himself, which is well entitled to precedence. EDINBURGH, March 1st, 1809. Gertrude. I have seen your to Alison, and he allowed me, though very hastily, to peruse them. There is great beauty, and great tenderness, and fancy in the work-and I am sure it will be very popular. The latter part is exquisitely pathetic, and the whole touched with those soft and skyish tints of purity and truth, which fall like enchantment on all minds that can make anything of such matters. Many of your descriptions come nearer the tone of "The Castle of Indolence," than any succeeding poetry, and the pathos is But there are faults too, much more graceful and delicate. for which you must be scolded. In the first place, it is too short-not merely for the delight of the reader-but, in some degree, for the development of the story, and for giving full effect to the fine scenes that are delineated. It looks almost as you had cut out large portions of it, and tilled up the gaps very imperfectly. if There is little on nothing said, I think, of the early love, and of the childish plays of your pair, and nothing certainly of their parting, and the effects of separation on each-though you had 22* a fine subject in his European tour, seeing everything with the eyes of a lover-a free man, and a man of the woods. It ends rather abruptly-not but that there is great spirit in the description-but a spirit not quite suitable to the soft and soothing tenor of the poem. The most dangerous faults, however, are your faults of diction. There is still a good deal of obscurity in many passages-and in others a strained and unnatural expression-an appearance of labor and hardness; you have hammered the metal in some places till it has lost all its ductility. These are not great faults, but they are blemishes; and as dunces will find them out-noodles will see them when they are pointed to. I wish you had had courage to correct, or rather to avoid them-for with you they are faults of over-finishing, and not of negligence. I have another fault to charge you with in private-for which I am more angry with you than for all the rest. Your timidity, or fastidiousness, or some other knavish quality, will not let you give your conceptions glowing, and bold, and powerful, as they present themselves; but you must chasten, and refine, and soften them, forsooth, till half their nature and grandeur is chiselled away from them. Believe me, my dear C., the world will never know how truly you are a great and original poet, till you venture to cast before it some of the rough pearls of your fancy. Write one or two things without thinking of publication, or of what will be thought of themand let me see them, at least, if you will not venture them any further. I am more mistaken in my prognostics than I ever was in my life, if they are not twice as tall as any of your fulldressed children. I write all this to you in a terrible hurry-but tell me instantly when your volume is to be out. F. JEFFREY. Expressions of admiration from other classic sources, though less discriminating, were not less candid and emphatic. In reply to one of these private friends, Mr. Telford, who enjoyed and cherished the Poet's reputation as his own, thus writes: LONDON, March 7th, 1809. Yesterday's post brought me your welcome letter. I would not for a moment resist dispatching it to Sydenham. Unusually frequent visits plainly bespoke the parental anxiety respecting the reception of "Gertrude" in his native city-and from "the friends of his heart!" I almost blame myself for this rashness. Such unqualified applause will either drive frantic, or ÆT. 31.] make him complete the epic poem on "Bruce," which he has threatened, before he closes his eyes. If I once hear from, or see him more, I shall have a fine story to tell you. T. TELFORD. The "welcome letter," to which Mr. Telford alludes, and which, like the former, Campbell regarded as an affectionate trophy, runs thus: EDINBURGH, March 2d, 1809. You never conferred so great a kindness upon us as in sending Gertrude. I was frightened to meet her. But I have seen her; and she is more angelic than I dared to hope, and as immortal as her author. We have fought for her we have wept with her; quarrelled with regard to her beauties, but have always ended in triumphing in her existence, and prophesying her immortality. All this I might have told you in twentyfour hours after I received your invaluable packets. But I wished to try the experiment with better heads than those that happen to grow at Bruntsfield Links; so she was dispatched immediately to Callander House: you all know what must be the tone The effect, however, was of feeling there, at this moment. greater than even our own Poet could have wished. Mr. S. insisted upon reading it first by himself, and he returned to them as pale as a ghost, and literally sick with weeping. Mrs. S.'s rapture rose with every line; and when I hinted some apprehension that a little more detail would have been acceptable to the unlearned reader, and that there were symptoms of an iron hand having shorn some of the tresses of her luxuriant beauty, Mrs. Stewart declared, most positively, that "she was perfect, and that she could not have read one page more for the world." At present she is in the hands So much for Callander House. of to whom I have labored to introduce her with all the advantages, and with all the address in my power. . . As for Campbell, tell him, that all those he cares for, are more than proud that they neither think or speak of rivals; and that amid all their wishes, they durst not have imagined Gertrude. Tell him that we never meet without speaking of Mrs. Campbell and his boys; and that a late letter of his to Callander House, . . . A thousand had all the effects that he could wish from it.* thanks to you-not from this house alone, but from many whom A. ALISON. our Gertrude has delighted and conquered. * A letter of condolence to Professor Dugald Stuart and his family, then Buffering under severe domestic affliction. This was high praise; and higher authority-considering the taste and character of the writers-could hardly be named. But although these private opinions of Gertrude-first heard in whispers were soon re-echoed, and confirmed by the public voice, Campbell judged of them with his usual discrimination: he could truly say to each-" Lætus sum laudari a te laudato viro;" but he did not forget the maxim― "Cum te aliquis laudat, judex tuus esse memento." In a characteristic letter to his "Sydenham Friends," enclosing the above document for their perusal, he writes: March 7th, 1809. I know you will think me vain for showing it-and I fear more the reprehension of your well-regulated minds, for so little a passion as vanity, than any reproof I know. But I give you the reading of these for two reasons-first, because I know that you are interested in the same way as affectionate and beloved sisters would be, in my literary report, when, as the die is not cast as to the public fate of the poem, you are probably as much alive to the first opinions of it as myself. Jeffrey's letter I inclose for your perusal, as preparatory to the critticisms that will be past on me-and as a rich curiosity. Alison's letter, is a thing belonging to the heart. Poor Stewart's tears are at present no certain test; his great, but always susceptible, mind is reduced, I dare say, to almost puerile weakness, if I may say it with due reverence to his name. Now my dear friends, let me ask,-Is it very great ostentation to betray the first symptoms of doubtful success to you?-to you who are so dear to my heart, that you will excuse even its foibles? I must not exclude your family from hearing something of Gertrude.... Aye, aye, I am like the whale in the gulf of Mälstroem. I feel myself getting into the whirlpool of vanity, in communicating the puff from Alison. I may roar and repent, but into the gulf I must go! But I love you very much, and that is the reason that I do not fear you. Say your worstbating, that I am a silly, vain creature-bite my nails, &c., brag much about Montague-street, when I have dined-and envy Sydney Smith! Except these faults, I defy you to say black is the white of my eye! T. C. A delay of some weeks having occurred in the publication of Gertrude, great impatience was felt by the author; and with AT. 31.] MEETING of the highlAND SOCIETY-VERSES. 517 an urgent request to Messrs. Longman and Rees, he writes to an accomplished friend, and begs her to take up the cause:— March, 21st, 1809. If giving trouble be a true testimony of friendship-and in good truth I feel it is-this case is one of the privileges o that noble sentiment, in which I may have (many times before I go to sleep in Westminster Abbey) occasion to demonstrate my affection for you, by that test. Alas! alas, poor Gertrude! the Poet killed her, and the booksellers are determined she shall never have a resurrection. The agitation I feel on this subject is quite intolerable. The delay is hurting me every way. At this season, so short and precious, every day lost is losing the prime of its morning sale. Messrs. Longman and Rees (though I hope you will be very civil to them) are certainly not pressing the bookbinders. book has been printed three weeks. The Be so good as to tell M. that the only verses I ever wrote respecting Sir John Moore, are some which I rather think will appear in the papers in a few days. This copy of verses was produced in consequence of an application from the Highland Society to give them some poetical celebration of the martial glory of the Scots for their next meeting. The request was communicated in a very polite letter from the secretary. I answered by declining the task; alleging, as I truly could, a press of business, indifferent health, and want of promptitude for occasional verses on a prescribed subject. The secretary sent, in return, an invitation from the Celtic worthies to partake of their festival (to-morrow)* in the Freemasons' Tavern, with a pathetic lamentation for the refusal I had given-yet still accepting the will for the deed. Touched to the quick with their pathos and hospitality, I sent, along with my apology for being unable to honor their invitation, a sort of copy of verses on the glory of "the kilted clans," and on the military fame of poor old Scotland -written with an aching head, yet with a willing heart. Heaven knows what Celtic tongue will recite them, or what inaccurate paper will make them still more lame than they are! But I imagine the Highlanders will print them. In those verses I have alluded to Moore in three stanzas as a Scotsman. These stanzas, however, are, like the Greek mentioned by Pallet, not *For an account of this festival, see the papers of the time. The verses were immediately incorporated with his other poems. V. ed. 1842, page 175. |