H⸺ W⸺.
The series of biographical sketches is for a time interrupted, to revert to the more immediate object of this narrative. Another work of considerable magnitude, undertaken by the writer of these Fragments, was proposed to, and accepted by, those most effectual patrons of literary men—the booksellers. This occasioned on his part a survey and examination of those more distinguished personages, to whom an introduction had been obtained from the claim of literary attainments, with the view of selecting a patron for this new work. After due deliberation, the individual fixed upon was H⸺ W⸺, of whom more hereafter. He was accordingly solicited for the honour of his permission to prefix his name to the meditated publication, and this honour was graciously conceded. A difficulty now presented itself. An author rising slowly from obscurity, is apt for a while to be dazzled with the splendour of elevated rank, and to feel his powers somewhat depressed and awed, in the presence of rank and grandeur. There must, however, be a dedication to this great man, the composition of which seemed more difficult and more formidable, than the execution of the proposed work itself, though of the extent of several volumes. It was, therefore, after many vain and unsatisfactory attempts, finally determined to call for external aid. This aid was at hand, and a Dedication was written by a powerful and friendly hand.
As the Dedication itself, and the manner in which it was refused, seem to form no incurious literary anecdote, the reader, it is hoped, will be amused with what follows, and may employ himself, if he shall think proper, in endeavouring, from a comparison and analysis of the style, to discover who the friend was that supplied the
Dedication.
My Lord,
Men of learning will see at a glance, and men of sensibility will strongly feel the propriety of the permission which I have requested, to dedicate such a work as ⸺ to such a nobleman as the Earl of ⸺.
From the curious researches into antiquities, and the elegant disquisitions in criticism which adorn the work I have now the honour to lay before the public, under the protection of your exalted name, their minds will naturally be turned towards those numerous writings, with which you have enlightened and charmed your contemporaries, and in which posterity will acknowledge, that the most various erudition is happily united with judgment the most correct, and taste the most refined.
Like the worthies of whom we read in Greek and Roman story, you find in old age a calm and dignified consolation from the continuance of those studies, which, with the lustre of high birth, and amidst the fascinating allurements of ambition, you, my Lord, have devoted a long and honourable life to the calmer and more ingenuous pursuits of literature.
Perhaps, my Lord, you feel new affiance in the wisdom of your choice, when you reflect on the peculiar circumstances of the times, which, big as they have been with awful events, and fatal as they may be to the fairest forms of society, leave[3] in the sacred retreats of science some shelter to the human mind, disgusted with the view of human crimes, and damped with the prospect of human woes.
I have the honour to be, &c. &c.
But all this would not do. The noble Lord declined all these fine things, in the following letter. Oh si sic omnia.
I do beg and beseech you, my good Sir, to forgive me, if I cannot possibly consent to receive the Dedication you were so kind and partial as to propose to me. I have, in the most positive and almost uncivil manner, refused a Dedication or two lately. Compliments on virtues which the persons addressed, like me, seldom possessed, are happily exploded, and laughed out of use.
Next to being ashamed of having good qualities bestowed upon me to which I should have no title, it would hurt me to be praised for my erudition, which is most superficial, and on my trifling writings, all of which turn on most trifling subjects. They amused me while writing them, may have amused a few persons, but have nothing solid enough to preserve them from being forgotten with other things of as light a nature.
I would not have your judgment called in question hereafter, if somebody reading your work should ask, “What are these writings of Lord Orford which this author so much commends? Was Lord Orford more than one of the mob of gentlemen who wrote with ease?” Into that class I must sink, and I had rather do so imperceptibly, than be plunged down to it by the interposition of the hand of a friend, who could not gainsay the sentence.
For your own sake, my good Sir, as well as in pity to my feelings, who am sore at your offering what I cannot accept, restrain the address to a mean (sic) inscription. You are allowed to be an excellent ⸺. How unclassic would a Dedication in the old fashioned manner appear, if you had published ⸺, and had ventured to prefix a Greek or Latin Dedication to some modern Lord, with a Gothic title!
Still less had these addresses been in vogue at Rome, would any Roman author have inscribed his work to Marcus, the incompetent son of Cicero, and tell the unfortunate offspring of so great a man of his high birth and declension of ambition. It would have excited a laugh on poor Marcus, who, whatever may have been said of him, had more sense than to leave proofs to the public of his extreme inferiority to his father.
I am, dear Sir, with great regard,
Your much obliged,
[And I hope by your compliance with my earnest request to be your much more obliged]
And obedient humble servant,
⸺.
Another Dedication was submitted to the noble Lord’s deliberation, but neither did this altogether satisfy him, as appears from the following expression of his opinion.
Dear Sir,
I scarce know how to reply to your new flattering proposal. I am afraid of appearing guilty of affected modesty, and yet I must beg your pardon, if I most sincerely and seriously entreat you to drop all thoughts of complimenting me, and my house and collection. If there is truth in man, it would hurt, not give me satisfaction.
If you could see my heart, and know what I think of myself, you would be convinced that I think myself unworthy of praise, and am so far from setting value on any thing I have done, that could I recall time, and recommence my life, I have long been persuaded, that, thinking as I do now, nothing would induce me to appear on the stage of the public.
Youth, great spirits, vanity, some flattery, (for I was a Prime Minister’s son) had made me believe I had some parts, and perhaps I had some, and on that rock I split; for how vast the distance between some parts and genius, original genius, which I confess is so supremely my admiration, and so honest is my pride, for that I never deny, that being conscious of not being a genius, I do not care a straw in which rank of mediocrity I may be placed. I tried before I was capable of judging myself, but having carefully examined and discovered my extreme inferiority to the objects of my admiration, I have passed sentence on my trifles, and hope nobody will think better of them than I do myself and then they will soon obtain that oblivion, out of which I wish I had never endeavoured to emerge.
All this I allow, Sir, you will naturally doubt, yet the latter part of my life has been of a piece with my declaration. I have not only abandoned my mistaken vocation, but have been totally silent to some unjust attacks, because I did not choose my name should be mentioned when I could help it. It will be therefore indulgent in a friend, to let me pass away unnoticed as I wish, and I should be a hypocrite indeed, (which indeed I am not) if it were possible for me to receive compliments from a gentleman, whose abilities I respect so much as I do yours. I must have been laying perfidious snares for flattery, or I must be sincere. I trust your candour and charity will at least hope I am the latter, and that you will either punish my dissimulation, by disappointing it, or oblige me, as you will assuredly do, by dropping your intention. I am perfectly content with the honour of your friendship, and beseech you to let these be the last lines that I shall have occasion to write on the disagreeable subject of ⸺.
Dear Sir,
Your obedient humble servant,
⸺.
Means were contrived to appease the apprehensions and satisfy the scruples of the venerable Peer. The work was published under the sanction of his name, and is now out of print.
That he did like the Dedication in its ultimate form, appears from the following.
Dear Sir,
I beg a thousand pardons for not returning your Preface, which I like much, and to which I could find but one very slight correction to make, which I have marked with pencil. But I confess I waited anxiously for an assurance from you, that you would suppress the intended Dedication, which I should have been extremely sorry to have seen appear. I have this moment received that promise, and am infinitely obliged by your compliance.
I shall be in town on Saturday, and happy to see you in Berkeley-square, when you shall have a moment to bestow on
Your obedient servant,
⸺.
Animus quod perdidit optat,
Atque in præterita se totus imagine versat.