To C.S. EDGEWORTH.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, April 12, 1827.
Now I have done all my agent business, I will tell you what Mr. Hope, in
a letter I had from him this morning, says of Almack's. "It might have
been a pretty thing, but I think it but a poor one. Of all slangs, that
of fashion is easiest overdone. People do not hold forth about what is
with them a matter of course. Willis, or his waiters, might have
furnished all the characteristic materials. The author ever and anon
makes up for want of wit by stringing together common French milliner
phrases, which have no merit but that of being exotics in England. The
point consists in his italics. Besides, he only describes the
proceedings, not the spirit of the institution of Almack's. It was
rather a bold thing in London to put FEASTING out of fashion, and to
make a seven-shilling ball the thing to which all aspired to be
admitted, and many without the least hope of succeeding. It was the
triumph of aristocracy over mere wealth. It put down the Grimes's of
former days, with their nectarines and peaches at Christmas, and in so
far it improved society."
All this is very true, but I do not think he does justice to the author. I particularly like the dialogue in the third volume, where Lady Anne Norbury debits and credits her hopes of happiness with her two admirers: no waiting-maid could have written that. In the second volume, also, I think there is a scene between Lord and Lady Norbury in their dressing-room, about getting rid of their guests and making room for others, which is nicely touched: the Lord and Lady are politely unfeeling; it is all kept within bounds.
Mr. Hope begs me to read Truckleborough Hall. Of late novels he says
it is that which has amused him most. "Both sides of the political
question are reviewed most impartially; both quizzed a little, and the
reader left in doubt to which the author leans. The transition in the
hero from rank Radicalism to a seat on the Treasury Bench, while
persuading himself all the time that he remains consistent, is
exceedingly well managed. Interest in the story there is none, because
the subject admits not of it. Like the high-finished Dutch pictures, mere truth, well and minutely told, makes all its merit."
Then follows a sentence so complimentary to myself that I cannot copy
it, and perhaps you have had enough. I trust you will give me credit, dear Harriet and Sneyd, for copying for you other people's letters, when I have nothing in my own but stupid pounds, shillings, and pence.
In a letter from my friend Mr. Ralston, from Philadelphia, he tells me
that seven volumes of Sir Walter Scott's Life of Napoleon have been
already printed there, and reviewed in the North American Review. Scott sends his MS. at the same time to London and to America. I tremble for this publication. Anne Scott writes to Harriet that her father is so busy writing, that she scarcely sees anything of him, though they are alone together at Abbotsford. Lockhart is much admired in London for his beauty.