SAMUEL JOHNSON'S LETTER TO LORD CHESTERFIELD.

MY LORD,-I have lately been informed by the proprietor of The World, that two papers, in which my Dictionary is recommended to the public, were written by your lordship. To be so distinguished is an honour, which, being very little accustomed to favours from the great, I know not well how to receive, or in what terms to acknowledge.

When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the enchantment of your address, and could not forbear to wish that I might boast myself le vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre, that I might obtain that regard for which I saw the world contending; but I found my attendance so little encouraged, that neither pride nor modesty would suffer me to continue it. When once I had addressed your lordship in public, I had exhausted all the art of pleasing which a retired and uncourtly scholar can possess. I had done all that I could; and no man is well pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever so little.

Seven years, my lord, have now passed, since I waited in your outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door; during which time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties, of which it is useless to complain, and have brought it, at last, to the verge of publication, without one fact of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile of favour. Such treatment I did not expect, for I never had a patron before.

The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with Love and found him a native of the rocks.

Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached the ground, encumbers him with help? The notice which you have been pleased to take of my labours, had it been early, had been kind; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity not to confess obligations when no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling that the public should consider me as owing that to a patron which Providence has enabled me to do for myself.

Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to any favourer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though I should conclude it, if less be possible, with less; for I have long been wakened from that dream of hope, in which I once boasted myself with so much exultation, my Lord, your lordship's most humble, most obedient servant,

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

In these days the poet William Shenstone, who died in 1763, was consuming his substance in the elegant enjoyment of his garden at the Leasowes;1 writing graceful verse with a real sense of nature, obscured by the weak notions of "taste" which then supplied the cant of polite life and literature. He was writing also prose essays abounding in good thought, and bearing witness to a power that wanted only the strength won by wrestle with the world. With a view to their incorporation in future essays, he would put down also detached thoughts in prose.

Here is a selection from them.

EGOTISMS.

I hate maritime expressions, similes, and allusions; my dislike, I suppose, proceeds from the unnaturalness of

1 See in this Library "Shorter English Poems," pages 273-275.

shipping, and the great share which art ever claims in that practice.

I am thankful that my name is obnoxious to no pun. Inanimates, toys, utensils, seem to merit a kind of affection from us, when they have been our companions through various vicissitudes. I have often viewed my watch, standish, snuff-box, with this kind of tender regard; allotting them a degree of friendship which there are some men who do not deserve.

It is with me in regard to the earth itself, as it is in regard to those that walk upon its surface. I love to pass by crowds,

It is a miserable thing to love where one hates; and yet it. is not inconsistent.

It is some loss of liberty to resolve on schemes beforehand.

There are a sort of people to whom one would allot good wishes and perform good offices; but they are sometimes those, with whom one would by no means share one's time.

I cannot avoid comparing the ease and freedom I enjoy to the ease of an old shoe; where a certain degree of shabbiness is joined with the convenience.

Not Hebrew, Arabic, Syriac, Coptic, nor even the Chinese language, seems half so difficult to me as the language of refusal.

Had I a fortune of £8,000 or £10,000 a year, I would methinks make myself a neighbourhood. I would first build a village with a church, and people it with inhabitants of some branch of trade that was suitable to the country round. I would then at proper distances erect a number of genteel boxes of about a £1,000 apiece, and amuse myself with giving them all the advantages they could receive from taste. These would I people with a select number of well-chosen friends, assigning to each annually the sum of £200 for life. The salary should be irrevocable, in order to give them independency. The house, of a more precarious tenure, that, in cases of ingratitude, I might introduce another inhabitant.

How plausible soever this may appear in speculation, perhaps a very natural and lively novel might be founded upon the inconvenient consequences of it, when put in execution.

What pleasure is it to pay one's debts! I remember to have heard Sir T. Lyttelton make the same observation. It seems to flow from a combination of circumstances, each of which is productive of pleasure. In the first place it removes that uneasiness, which a true spirit feels from dependence and obligation. It affords pleasure to the creditor, and therefore gratifies our social affection. It promotes that future confidence, which is so very interesting to an honest mind. It opens a prospect of being readily supplied with what we want on future occasions. It leaves a consciousness of our own virtue : and it is a measure we know to be right, both in point of justice and of sound economy. Finally, it is a main support of simple reputation.

ON DRESS.

Dress, like writing, should never appear the effect of too much study and application. On this account, I have seen parts of dress in themselves extremely beautiful, which at the same time subject the wearer to the character of foppishness and affectation.

It is a point out of doubt with me, that the ladies are most properly the judges of the men's dress, and the men of that of the ladies.

I think till thirty, or with some a little longer, people should dress in a way that is most likely to procure the love of the opposite sex.

There are many modes of dress which the world esteems handsome, which are by no means calculated to show the human figure to advantage.

Love can be founded upon nature only; or the appearance of it;-for this reason, however a peruke may tend to soften the human features, it can very seldom make amends for the mixture of artifice which it discovers.

A rich dress adds but little to the beauty of a person. It may possibly create a deference, but that is rather an enemy to love.

Non bene conveniunt nec in una sede morantur Majestas et Amor.1 OVID.

A person's manner is never easy, while he feels a consciousness that he is fine. The country fellow considered in some lights appears genteel; but it is not when he is dressed on Sundays with a large nosegay in his bosom. It is when he is reaping, making hay, or when he is hedging in his hurden frock. It is then he acts with ease, and thinks himself equal to his apparel.

Methinks apparel should be rich in the same proportion as it is gay it otherwise carries the appearance of somewhat unsubstantial; in other words, of a greater desire than ability to make a figure.

1 Il sit together Majesty and Love.

ON WRITING AND BOOKS.

Fine writing is generally the effect of spontaneous thoughts, and a laboured style.

Long sentences in a short composition are like large rooms in a little house.

The world may be divided into people that read, people that write, people that think, and fox-hunters.

Instead of whining complaints concerning the imagined cruelty of their mistresses, if poets would address the same to their muse, they would act more agreeably to nature and to truth.

Superficial writers, like the mole, often fancy themselves deep, when they are exceedingly near the surface.

It is often observed of wits, that they will lose their best friend for the sake of a joke. Candour may discover, that it is their greater degree of the love of fame, not the less degree of their benevolence, which is the cause.

People in high or in distinguished life ought to have a greater circumspection in regard to their most trivial actions. For instance, I saw Mr. Pope-and what was he doing when you saw him?—why, to the best of my memory, he was picking his nose.

A plain narrative of any remarkable fact, emphatically related, has a more striking effect without the author's

comment.

"Great wits have short memories" is a proverb; and as such has undoubtedly some foundation in nature. The case seems to be, that men of genius forget things of common concern, unimportant facts and circumstances, which make no slight impression in every-day minds. But sure it will be found that all wit depends on memory-i.e., on the recollection of passages, either to illustrate, or contrast with, any present occasion. It is probably the fate of a common understanding to forget the very things which the man of wit remembers. But an oblivion of those things which almost every one remembers renders his case the more remarkable, and thus explains the mystery.

Some men use no other means to acquire respect, than by insisting on it; and it sometimes answers their purpose, as it does a highwayman's in regard to money.

Every single observation that is published by a man of genius, be it ever so trivial, should be esteemed of importance because he speaks from his own impressions; whereas common men publish common things, which they have, perhaps, gleaned from frivolous writers.

Every good poet includes a critic; the reverse will not hold.

Necessity may be the mother of lucrative invention; but is the death of poetical.

The question is, whether you distinguish me, because you have better sense than other people; or whether you seem to have better sense than other people, because you distinguish

me.

To endeavour, all one's days, to fortify our minds with learning and philosophy, is to spend so much in armour that one has nothing left to defend.

BOOKS, ETC.

Similes drawn from odd circumstances and effects strangely accidental, bear a near relation to false wit. The best instance of the kind is that celebrated line of Waller:

"He grasped at love, and filled his hand with bays." Harmony of period and melody of style have greater weight than is generally imagined in the judgment we pass upan writing and writers. As a proof of this, let us reflect what

texts of Scripture, what lines in poetry, or what periods we most remember and quote, either in verse or prose, and we shall find them to be only musical ones.

Hope is a flatterer; but the most upright of all parasites, for she frequents the poor man's hut, as well as the palace of his superior.

OF MEN AND MANNERS.

It is happy enough that the same vices which impair one's fortune, frequently ruin our constitution, that the one may not survive the other.

Dancing in the rough is one of the most natural expressions of joy, and coincides with jumping. When it is regulated, it is merely "cum ratione insanire."

A man of genius mistaking his talent loses the advantage of being distinguished; a fool of being undistinguished.

What some people term freedom is nothing else than a liberty of saying and doing disagreeable things. It is but carrying the notion a little higher, and it would require us to break and have a head broken reciprocally without offence.

I cannot see why people are ashamed to acknowledge their passion for popularity. The love of popularity is the love of being beloved.

Zealous men are ever displaying to you the strength of their belief, while judicious men are showing you the grounds of it.

In a heavy oppressive atmosphere, when the spirits sink too low, the best cordial is to read over all the letters of one's friends.

People frequently use this expression, "I am inclined to think so and so;" not considering that they are then speaking the most literal of all truths.

The first part of a newspaper which an ill-natured man examines, is, the list of bankrupts, and the bills of mortality. Ask to borrow sixpence of the Muses, and they tell you at present they are out of cash, but hereafter they will furnish you with five thousand pounds.

Few men, that would cause respect and distance merely, can say anything by which their end will be so effectually answered as by silence.

There is nothing more universally commended than a fine day; the reason is, that people can commend it without envy.

Although a man cannot procure himself a title at pleasure, he may vary the appellation he goes by considerably. As, from Tom, to Mr. Thomas, to Mr. Musgrove, to Thomas Musgrove, Esquire. And this by a behaviour of reserve, or familiarity.

A proud man's intimates are generally more attached to him, than the man of merit and humility can pretend his to be. The reason is, the former pays a greater compliment in his condescension.

Third thoughts often coincide with the first, and are generally the best grounded. We first relish nature and the country, then artificial amusements and the city; then become impatient to retire to the country again.

A man has generally the good or ill qualities which he attributes to mankind.

A mere relater of matters of fact is fit only for an evidence in a court of justice.

A writer who pretends to polish the human understanding may beg by the side of Rutter's chariot who sells a powder for the teeth.

The difference there is betwixt honour and honesty seems to be chiefly in the motive. The mere honest man does that from duty which the man of honour does for the sake of character.

A man sooner finds out his own foibles in a stranger than any other foibles.

A liar begins with making falsehood appear like truth, and ends with making truth itself appear like a falsehood.

Fools are very often found united in the strictest intimacies, as the lighter kinds of woods are the most closely glued together.

Avarice is the most opposite of all characters to that of God Almighty; Whose alone it is to give and not receive. A miser grows rich by seeming poor; an extravagant man grows poor by seeming rich.

When a person is so far engaged in a dispute as to wish to get the victory, he ought ever to desist. The idea of conquest will so dazzle him that it is hardly possible he should discern the truth.

People say, "Do not regard what he says now he is in liquor." Perhaps it is the only time he ought to be regarded. Some men are called sagacious, merely on account of their avarice whereas a child can clench its fist the moment it is born.

Wit is the refractory pupil of judgment.

Think when you are enraged at any one, what would probably become your sentiments should he die during the dispute.

A person, elevated one degree above the populace, assumes more airs of superiority than one that is raised ten. The reason is somewhat obvious. His superiority is more contestable.

The state of man is not unlike that of a fish hooked by an angler. Death allows us a little line. We flounce, and sport, and vary our situation. But when we would extend our schemes we discover our confinement, checked and limited by a superior hand, who drags us from our element whensoever he pleases.

It is possible to discover in some faces the features nature intended, had she not been somehow thwarted in her operations. It is not easy to remark the same distortion in some minds? There is a phrase pretty frequent amongst the vulgar, and which they apply to absolute fools-that they have had a rock too much in their cradles. With me, it is a most expressive idiom to describe a dislocated understanding: an understanding, for instance, which, like a watch, discovers a multitude of such parts, as appear obviously intended to belong to a system of the greatest perfection; yet which, by some unlucky jumble, falls infinitely short of it.

I lived at the Temple till I was sick of it: I have just left it, and find myself as much a lawyer as I was when I was in it. It is certain, at least, I may study the law here as well as I could there. My being in chambers did not signify to me a pinch of snuff. They tell me my father was a lawyer, and, as you know, eminent in the profession; and such a circumstance must be of advantage to me. My uncle too makes some figure in Westminster Hall; and there's another advantage: then my grandfather's name would get me many friends. Is it not strange that a young fellow, that might enter the world with so many advantages, will not know his own interest? &c. &c.-What shall I say in answer to all this? For money, I neither doat upon it nor despise it; it is a necessary stuff enough. For ambition, I do not want that neither; but it is not to sit upon a bench. In short, is it not a disagreeable thing to force one's inclination, especially when one's young? not to mention that one ought to have the strength of a Hercules to go through our common law; which, I am afraid, I have not. Well! but then, say they, if one profession does not suit you, you may choose another more to your inclination. Now I protest I do not yet know my own inclination, and I believe, if that was to be my direction, I should never fix at all: there is no going by a weathercock.I could say much more upon this subject; but there is no talking tête-à-tête across the Alps. Oh, the folly of young men, that never know their own interest! they never grow wise till they are ruined! and then nobody pities them, nor helps them.-Dear Gray! consider me in the condition of one that has lived these two years without any person that he can speak freely to. I know it is very seldom that people trouble themselves with the sentiments of those they converse with; so they can chat about trifles, they never care whether your heart aches or no. one of these? I think not. But what right have I to ask you this question? Have we known one another enough, that I should expect or demand sincerity from you? Yes, Gray, I hope we have; and I have not quite such a mean opinion of myself, as to think I do not deserve it.-But, Signor, is it not time for me to ask something about your further intentions abroad? Where do you propose going next? an in Apuliam? nam'illò si adveneris, tanquam Ulysses, cognosces tuorum neminem. Vale.1 So Cicero prophesies in the end of one of his letters-and there I end. Yours, &c.

Are you

1 The reference is to the last letter in the first book of Cicero's "Letters to Familiar Friends." It is addressed to Valerius, a lawyer, who is travelling, and it notes chiefly how little he is or can be understood among strangers, how much his pleasant fellowship is sought by those who know him. "Do not go," says Cicero," into Apulia! For if you come there, like Ulysses, you will know none of your friends. Farewell."

THOMAS GRAY TO RICHARD WEST.

Florence, July 16, 1740. You do yourself and me justice, in imagining that you merit, and that I am capable of sincerity. I have not a thought, or even a weakness, I desire to conceal from you; and consequently on my side deserve to be treated with the same openness of heart. My vanity perhaps might make me more reserved towards you, if you were one of the heroic race, superior to all human failings; but as mutual wants are the ties of general society, so are mutual weaknesses of private friendships, supposing them mixed with some proportion of good qualities; for where one may not sometimes blame, one does not much care ever to praise. All this has the air of an introduction designed to soften a very harsh reproof that is to follow; but it is no such matter: I only meant to ask, Why did you change your lodging? Was the air bad, or the situation melancholy? If so you are quite in the right. Only, is it not putting yourself a little out of the way of a people, with whom it seems necessary to keep up some sort of intercourse and conversation, though but little for your pleasure or entertainment (yet there are, I believe, such among them as might give you both), at least for your information in that study, which, when I left you, you thought of applying to? for that there is a certain study necessary to be followed, if we mean to be of any use in the world, I take for granted; disagreeable enough (as most necessities are), but, I am afraid, unavoidable. Into how many branches these studies are divided in England, everybody knows; and between that which you and I had pitched upon, and the other two, it was impossible to balance long. Examples show one that it is not absolutely necessary to be a blockhead to succeed in this profession. The labour is long, and the elements dry and unentertaining; nor was ever anybody (especially those that afterwards made a figure in it) amused, or even not disgusted in the beginning; yet upon a further acquaintance, there is surely matter for curiosity and reflection. It is strange if, among all that huge mass of words, there be not somewhat intermixed for thought. Laws have been the result of long deliberation, and that not of dull men, but the contrary; and have so close a connection with history, nay, with philosophy itself, that they must partake a little of what they are related to so nearly. Besides, tell me, have you ever made the attempt? Was not you frighted merely with the distant prospect? Had the Gothic character and bulkiness of those volumes (a tenth part of which perhaps it will be no further necessary to consult, than as one does a dictionary) no ill effect upon your eye? Are you sure, if Coke had been printed by Elzevir, and bound in twenty neat pocket volumes, instead of one folio, you should never have taken him up for an hour, as you would a Tully, or drank your tea over him? I know how great an obstacle ill spirits are to resolution. Do you really think, if you rid ten miles every morning, in a week's time you should not entertain much stronger hopes of the Chancellorship, and think it a much more probable thing than you do at present? The advantages you mention are not nothing; our inclinations are more than we imagine in our own power; reason and resolution determine them, and support under many difficulties. To me there hardly appears to be any medium between a public life and a private one; he who prefers the first, must put himself in a way of being serviceable to the rest of mankind, if he has a mind to be of any consequence among them: nay, he must not refuse being in a certain degree even dependent upon some men who already are so. If he has the good fortune to light on such as will make no ill use of his humility, there