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Memoir of John Murray
William Gifford to John Murray, [1818]
INTRODUCTION & INDEXES
DOCUMENT INFORMATION
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Preface
Vol. 1 Contents
Chapter I.
Chapter II.
Chapter III.
Chapter IV.
Chapter V.
Chapter VI.
Chapter VII.
Chapter VIII.
Chapter IX.
Chapter X.
Chapter XI.
Chapter XII.
Chapter XIII.
Chapter XIV.
Chapter XV.
Chapter XVI.
Chapter XVII.
Chapter XVIII.
Chapter XIX.
Vol. 2 Contents
Chap. XX.
Chap. XXI.
Chap. XXII.
Chap. XXIII.
Chap. XXIV.
Chap. XXV.
Chap. XXVI.
Chap. XXVII.
Chap. XXVIII.
Chap. XXIX.
Chap. XXX.
Chap. XXXI.
Chap. XXXII.
Chap. XXXIII.
Chap. XXXIV.
Chap. XXXV.
Chap. XXXVI.
Chap. XXXVII.
Index
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I wish you could induce our friend to make a few alterations. . . . Scarcely anything is said about the agriculture of Greenland. . . . Then what a pity it is that no notice is taken of the sun. This is characteristic; and here is a verse:—
“The people, whose unclouded day
Ends in a joyless half-year’s night,
Gaze wistful on the setting ray
That glitters on Spitzbergen’s height.”
These things might be easily introduced by a preliminary
SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL.47
line or two. But the translation wants pace, and is very inferior to the language of the article. Mr. Cohen might, if it be thought worth while, look at it with his pencil in his hand. There is something interesting in the good priest’s journey, but it should be compressed. I was much struck by the bridge of ice, and wonder that our friend was not reminded by it of the bridge of the Estala. If you think nothing of what I have hinted, then the revise may go to press. I think ‘Thorgill’ long, but I can shorten it no more. There is really no one for whom I would labour with such interest as for our friend. His style is racy and vivid, and I think among the very best we ever had. What he wants is selection. All things ought not to be detailed at equal length, and it is woeful work to toil on what is not cared for. With all this, I cannot help thinking that Cohen will rise to distinction as a writer by practice, and condescending somewhat more than he does at present to the comparative ignorance of his readers. . . . I scrawl this with eyes half closed, and you may add, and brains too.

Ever yours,
W. G.