Even the “one sarcastic joke” we are not permitted to hear; but we are kindly told in what volume of the Annual Review we shall find the “radical fault,” pointed out of a satire that lives only “in the praises of Dr Warton.” One more instance we must select, that our readers may form some just appreciation of the indefatigable research of our learned editor. The name of Sir Richard Lyttleton being mentioned, we are invited to the perusal of the following note:—
“Richard Lyttleton, K.B. He married the Lady Rachel Russell, sister of John Duke of Bedford, and widow of Scrope Egerton, Duke of Bridgewater. He was first page of honour to Queen Caroline; then successively Captain of Marines, Aide-de-Camp to the Earl of Stair at the battle of Dettingen, and Deputy Quartermaster-General in South Britain, with the rank of Lieut.-Colonel and Lieut.-General, &c. He was fifth son of Sir Thomas, fourth baronet and younger brother of George, First Lord Lyttleton.—See some letters by him in ‘Chatham Correspondence,’ vol. ii. p. 173, &c. He was Governor of Minorca in 1764, and subsequently Governor of Guernsey.—See ‘Walpole’s Misc. Letters,’ iv. pp. 363, 424. He died in 1770. His house, in the Harley Street corner, 1 Cavendish Square, was bought by the Princess Emily, and was afterwards Mr Hope’s, and then Mr Watson Taylor’s.—See ‘Grenville Papers,’ i. pp. 49, 249; and ii. pp. 442, 449. When in Minorca, he was involved in some dispute with Samuel Johnson, who held a situation under him.—See reference to it in ‘Walpole’s Letters to Lord Hertford,’ Feb. 6, 1764.”
All this, we doubt not, is very praiseworthy; but where is it to end? A learned man writing to another learned man, says, in honest blunt vernacular, “Have you seen Mr Thomson?” and passes on to other matter. Is the heart of an editor to beat within him till he has discovered who this Thomson was, and everything discoverable about him—what house he lived in, and whom he quarrelled with? This Thomson is mentioned only once, and we have nothing of him but his name. The more mysterious, seems the indefatigable editor to think; and the more meritorious, if from so slight a clue he can succeed in identifying this defunct Thomson. Whereupon a ransacking of all libraries and innumerable references,—see this, see that! see, see! We wonder if there is any one man in Great Britain, not an editor, so laboriously idle as to climb the steps of a library to see after all these surprising discoveries.
Books, it seems, are used by different persons for very different purposes. Some build up theories of all sorts with them; children take them out of the book-case, and build houses and castles with them, perhaps almost as substantial; the good monks in one of the monasteries of the Levant, Mr Curzon tells us, used them as mats, or cushions, to protect their bare feet from the cold pavement of the chapel; and others, again, pull them about, and toss over the leaves with restless agitation—to find who Mr Thomson was! Of the two last, we infinitely prefer the quiet serviceable employment of them by the monks whom Mr Curzon visited.
“There is a pleasure in poetic pains”—there must be a charm in labour editorial that only editors can know. There is withal, it seems, a gravity of duty, a weight of responsibility, which they only can duly appreciate. We are happy to hear, that in proportion to the dulness is the virtue of their labours. “To give some personality,” says our present editor in his preface, “to names, most of them new, even to those who are acquainted with the common biographies of Gray, has been found, from the lapse of time, a matter of some difficulty; and success has only been attained by the assistance of various friends. To have passed over this part of the task would have been unsatisfactory, and considered a dereliction of duty!” It is added, with a little inconsistency, that the persons whose names are here heard for the first time, “formed the select and intimate society of one who was not remarkable for the facility with which his acquaintance was gained.” What intimate friend have we here added to the well-known list? But let us grant that the mantle of the poet ennobles all it touches, does the Reverend William Mason also rank among the inspired?—for we find that his letters are edited with the same reverential care.
We shall be answered, that if we do not think highly of the immortal author of Elfrida, and Caractacus, and The English Garden, others do. Mr Mitford does. “The place in his library was pointed out to me,” he pathetically tells us, “where Mason usually sate and wrote. His poetical chair—sedes beata—was kindly bequeathed to me; and I have left it by will to the Poet Laureate of the day, that it may rest amongst the sacred brotherhood!” What an announcement for Mr Tennyson to read! What will he do with the chair when it comes? A superstitious man would hardly venture to sit in it. Who knows what spirit of drowsiness may be still clinging about it?
If we have been provoked into any impatient remarks on this excess of editorship, we would at the same time express—as we feel—an undiminished respect for Mr Mitford. He is a literary veteran who has performed many a good service. We would rather retract every word, and beg that every expression be set down to mere petulance on our part, than be thought wanting in personal respect to one who has well earned his reputable position in the world of letters. But we cannot help ourselves; we must “tell the tale,” as the tale tells itself to us.
Of the few additions made in the present volume to the letters of Gray, those which congratulate Mason on his clerical promotion, and on his marriage, are amongst the most sprightly and entertaining. The following extracts may be new to our readers:—
“Dear Mason,—It is a mercy that old men are mortal, and that dignified clergymen know how to keep their word. I heartily rejoice with you in your establishment, and with myself that I have lived to see it—to see your insatiable mouth stopped, and your anxious periwig at rest and slumbering in a stall. The Bishop of London, you see, is dead; there is a fine opening. Is there nothing further to tempt you? Feel your own pulse, and answer me seriously. It rains precentorships; you have only to hold up your skirts to catch them.” * * *
“Dear Doctor,—I send your reverence the lesson, &c. No sooner do people feel their income increase than they want amusement. Why, what need have you of any other than to sit like a Japanese divinity, with your hands folded on your fat belly, wrapped, and, as it were, annihilated in the contemplation of your own copuses and revenues?”