W. H. Hudson and the Mystery of Mr. W. H.

[W. H. Hudson to Morley Roberts]

23 North Parade, Penzance,

December 28th, 1919.

Yes, quite legible this time--probably more so than I shall ever be. It shows what you can do when you have the mind. That judgment of Gissing is brief--and brilliant--you couldn't have said more in half a dozen columns. Gissing himself, I believe, would have appreciated it as a true--the truest estimate of his genius. I agree with Naomi about Chesterfield--she cannot admire him more than I do. His letters in a very old 17th century edition was one of the strange books in our collection on the pampas when I was a boy: it was one of the first serious books I read and I have not outlived my esteem for it, in spite of the quarrel we all have with him in reference to the Dr. Johnson business. As to Landor, anyone who loves literature must come in time to think very highly of him. He is very great--but, taking literature in the sense in which we consider, say, sport, clothing, cookery and so on, it is not the greatest. Read a scene in Shakespear, a chapter of Tolstoi, and then the best dialogue in Imaginary Conversations and you remark the vast difference--the hot passionate palpitating world we exist in and the beautiful motionless picture of life, beautifully framed, varnished, and hanging on the wall. For the rest--I'm inclined to hope Naomi will never be a Peacockian. I admire certain things--but they are always the things I admire, and, thank God, I'm not what you call catholic in my tastes. I've just finished the whole huge Butler biography and it has sent me back to his books. What a pity we didn't meet him when we were at Shoreham and he was coming there often, when Gogin was painting his portrait. For some reason the biographer Festing Jones, who diligently goes out of his way in his memoir to say every nasty thing about people--mainly those Butler disliked--says not a word about a quarrel between Butler and Gogin. It was, I believe, about a lady. . . . Just now I'm reading S. B.'s Sonnets of Shakespear, and whether his theory is true, or wholly true, or not, it is to my mind the best exposition I have seen and has cleared my mind of the confounded tantalizing mystery of the Sonnets and the Mr. W. H. one has come to detest before knowing anything about Butler's notion. Then too his Ulysses--but Lord, what a many-sided mind he had! Rain, rain, rain here every day and all day long, so tho' always unwell, I must stay indoors and do a little writing each day.

[W. H. Hudson]

[photo of Samuel Butler circa 1858 while an undergraduate at Cambridge and from the portrait by Charles Gogin 1896]

-from Men, Books and Birds by W. H. Hudson; with notes, some letters, and an introduction by Morley Roberts (London: Jonathan Cape, 1928) p.214-15.

-from

Undesired Tokens

[W. H. Hudson to Morley Roberts]

40 St. Luke's Road, W.,

Xmas Day, 1900.

Dear Roberts,

Thanks for your letter: I envy you at having escaped from this unlovely place for these unlovely festivities.

I don't know how it is with you with regard to Xmas greetings--cards and all that--but in spite of all I have done to break free of these most irksome conventions I still find myself cursed with them. For years past I have made it a point to inform every person I knew that I do not send cards and have even broken off acquaintance with a good number of good people just to give myself more liberty. And yet here I am, with a shower of these undesired tokens falling upon me at every post. And having no tokens to send in return I must at least write, and for days past I have been occupied with useless letters about nothing, and wishing the people I write to were all at the devil. I don't mean you--you have sent me no card, thank God, or whoever it is that presides over this department.

I have a good many things out--articles, a book or two etc.--but with the exception of some very small things the stuff does not go, and so I must wait and wait before the blessed time comes when I too can shake off the mud of the metropolis and go away towards and past Hindhead and see and breathe again.

With kind regards to Mrs. Roberts,

Yours ever,

W. H. Hudson

Shall look in at the Club one day after your return. Have you got my room at the Royal Huts? Chort is a sweet village--Thursley too.

-from Men, Books and Birds by W. H. Hudson; with notes, some letters, and an introduction by Morley Roberts (London: Jonathan Cape, 1928) p.28-29.

W. H. Hudson Mixes Fact & Fiction

[W. H. Hudson to Morley Roberts]

40 St. Luke's Road, W.

April 21st, 1901.

My Dear M.

Thanks for your note. I am glad you are getting such splendid weather, and almost wish our rambles had been deferred a fortnight. But what is, is, and things happen just as they like and there's an end on't. Yesterday I had a day in Richmond Park and saw the Gt. crested grebes just arrived for the summer at the Pin Ponds. Also the herons breeding in Sidmouth Wood. If only to-morrow will be as fine! I am going for the day to Woburn Abbey, the Duchess of Bedford having invited me to go and see the beasts there. She thinks they will interest me--does any woman or man know what does or would interest me, I wonder? I have just lent your Fugitives to Mrs. Hubbard who is a great admirer of your books. That was a good paper of yours in yesterday's Literature. It is written out of a full mind and is all the more effective because of the quiet restrained style and the light way in which you smilingly touch upon the blunders of the realist and scientific fictionists who have not absorbed their knowledge. By the by you go wrong in the Fugitives tho' you don't say much about the feathered denizens of the grove. Gwen or some one hears a blackbird whistle one frosty day in winter. She must have heard a thrush: the blackbird never indulges in a song or whistle in winter, though he chuckles often enough when disturbed.

Where is Cowley--or is it a mere imaginary place? In half an hour the train got to Bletchley Station where Jim Carruthers* turned up, and carried off his jelly-fish of a woman. I get out to-morrow at Bletchely Station for Woburn Abbey, so I suppose Cowley is on the Euston line further away.

Hope to see you when you get back, and hope your fine weather will last.

Yours ever,

W. H. Hudson

*A character mentioned in the novel Fugitives by Morley Roberts.

-from Men, Books and Birds by W. H. Hudson with notes, some letters, and an introduction by Morley Roberts. (London: Jonathan Cape, 1928) p. 29-30.

W. H. Hudson's Bicycle

[W. H. Hudson to Morley Roberts]

40 St. Luke's Road, W.,

June 5, 1900

Dear Roberts,

I found your postcard here on my return from the New Forest where I have been staying a few days. I also found the book Nature in Downland, and sent your copy to 54 Stokenchurch St.

Your home for tired authors would have little attraction for me. I hate all 'homes,' being rather of the Gipsy mind who loves the open heath better than the house.

I left my bicycle down in the Forest--it is rather too much to have to pay 3/- each way each time; and I am going down again in a very few days.

By the bye, when I am going a distance on the wheel I sometimes drop into the idea that I am on horseback, and only recover consciousness of the different sort of wild beast I am astride of when it begins to fly down a long slope. Are you ever troubled that way? Poor Miss Kingsley and poor Stephen Crane--both reported dead to-day! It is 10 o'clock now and guns are going off and the population of Westbourne Park is getting drunk all for joy that Pretoria has fallen. Well, I'm about tired of the war, and want to be back among the birds, beetles and snakes of the Forest.

Kind remembrances to Mrs. Roberts. I hope you are both well.

Every yours,

W. H. Hudson

-from Men, Books and Birds by W. H. Hudson with notes, some letters, and an introduction by Morley Roberts. (London: Jonathan Cape, 1928) p. 24-25.