I felt very much flattered by your warm praises of Thomas à
Beckett, and the more so, as its rough nature is opposed to
the present refined and polished mode of poetry. Most persons prefer a
Paris or a Perseus by Canova, to a
Knight-Templar on a tombstone, and looking as if he had been sculptured with a
pickaxe, not a chisel. But I suppose you have a heart big enough for both
styles, a heart on both sides, while most critics have only the sinister one,
or none at all. Your suggestion about “a series of historical
dramas,” such as Beckett, encouraged me in that design, and hence
Ethelstan. I
hope not to have presented this subject in all the mere ruggedness and rust of
antiquity, yet to have preserved some of its simple relish and raciness. If my
recurrence to such olden times be objected, you will say for me, (as your
countryman, proud of the name) that King
Ethelstan is, to us living now, a far more poetical personage
than the Emperor Napoleon, and that
history often teaches us nearer the farther it removes, like “dear
home,” which is seldom so very
| LONDON LIFE—1839. | 461 |
Dear Lady Morgan, excuse the liberty of this long answer to your note; but as I am, in a worse sense than the weird woman, one of the “imperfect speakers,” [he had an impediment in his speech] it forces me to spend all my tediousness in writing. Sir Charles will perhaps take the trouble of deciphering these hieroglyphical characters for your convenience.
With best respects to him and your ladyship, I remain what all the world is towards you, and to what I need not say besides,
