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,