[Manchester—Monday, 3 September 1866]
Monday warm, the air full of clouds and mist, a day in which I could do nothing but enjoy the sweetness of the world—read Chaucer and a little in Victor Hugo’s new novel, which makes you cry on “how skilfull” all the time, you are never lost in all narrations of character or sentiment so deeply as to forget the artist—this is fatal to the best work; curiously enough Victor Hugo although so great a writer has seldom even in his poetry “achieved greatness,” yet he appears to me the greatest of Frenchman, certainly the greatest of living Frenchmen. In Lady Duff Gordon’s letters she speaks of the absurdities in his “Orientales” as for instance his introducing elephants into Syracuse “as well into Paris” she declares. The first element of living poetry is truth and every man who yields to such follies for the sake of effects makes use of his genius for constructing fire-rockets simply. The state of political affairs is growing daily worse and worse. Mr Beecher’s letter is short-sighted,—the Republicans call it bad—doubtless it is since there is no half-way house to Right. Mr Whittier’s letter on the contrary is noble. Heaven keep us from another war!
