A DISSERTATION ON ANECDOTES.

A Writer of periodical criticiſm^*, has given ſome obſervations on ANEC⯑DOTES; which, becauſe they echo the voice of ſeveral men of letters, it may not be im⯑proper to inveſtigate. The opinions of our critic, to me, appear erroneous, becauſe they regard anecdotes as only agreeable objects of literary amuſement. A writer ſhould correct others, or correct himſelf: I there⯑fore hazard this eſſay. A dry diſſertation on anecdotes appears thorny; let us try if we cannot diſcover bloſſoms and flowers.

The critic ſays, ‘'Anecdotes are among the luxuries of literature;'’ and he is ‘'fear⯑ful that the mind ſhould be accuſtomed to them, and reject ſeverer diet.'’ I rejoice, [2] however, to be informed, in the ſame para⯑graph, that, ‘'they ſtimulate the appetite for reading, and create it where deficient.'’ This logic is not in the happieſt manner of Bayle.

I will not deny that anecdotes are to be placed among literary luxuries. The refine⯑ment of a nation influences the genius of its literature; we now require not only a ſo⯑lid repaſt, but a delicious deſſert. A phy⯑ſician, auſtere as Hippocrates, a critic, rigid as Ariſtotle, are alike inimical to our refreſh⯑ments. We will not be fooled into their ſyſtems. We do not diſmiſs our fruits and and our wines from our tables; we eat, and our health remains unprejudiced. We read anecdotes with voluptuous delight; nor is our ſcience impaired, or our wit rendered leſs brilliant.

The day has paſt, when perſevering dull⯑neſs obtained the honours of literary emi⯑nence. A vigorous memory was then the only talent required in the ſcholar; he was the greateſt genius who read moſt. Our age does not think highly of thoſe names, once ſo celebrated. Learning, in its pre⯑ſent diffuſion, will only pleaſe as it is found⯑ed [3] on a ſolid judgment, and embelliſhed by the graces of a fine taſte^*.

It is therefore not juſt to conſider anec⯑dotes merely as a ſource of entertainment, becauſe they amuſe; if it ſhall be ſound that they ſerve alſo for the purpoſes of utility, they will deſerve to be claſſed higher in the ſcale of ſtudy than hitherto they have been.

Anecdotes ſeldom read with reflec⯑tion. All the world read anecdotes; but not many with reflection, and ſtill fewer with taſte. To moſt, one anecdote reſembles another; a little unconnected ſtory that is heard, that pleaſes, and is forgotten. Yet when anecdotes are not merely tranſcrib⯑ed, but animated by judicious reflections, they recal others of a kindred nature: one ſuggeſts another; and the whole ſeries is made to illuſtrate ſome topic that gratifies curioſity, or impreſſes on the mind ſome in⯑tereſting concluſion in the affairs of human life. Like the concord of notes, one de⯑pends on the other, and the whole forms a perfect harmony.

[4] We will take a review of ſome of thoſe effects, which anecdotes appear capable of producing.

The moſt agreeable parts of Hiſtory, conſiſt in it's anec⯑dotes. Hiſtory itſelf derives ſome of it's moſt agreeable inſtructions from a ſkilful intro⯑duction of anecdotes. We ſhould not now dwell with anxiety on a dull chronicle of the reigns of monarchs; a pariſh regiſter might prove more intereſting. We are not now ſolicitous of attending to battles, which have ceaſed to alarm; to ſieges, which can deſtroy none of our towns; and to ſtorms, which can never burſt upon our ſhores. We turn with diſguſt from fic⯑tions told without the grace of fable, and from truths unintereſting as fables told with⯑out grace.^* Our hearts have learnt to ſym⯑pathiſe; and we conſult the annals of hiſtory, [5] as a ſon and a brother would turn over his domeſtic memoirs. We read hiſtory, not to indulge the frivolous inquiſitiveneſs of a dull antiquary, but to explore into the cauſes of the miſeries and the proſperities of our country. We are more intereſted in the progreſs of the human mind, than in that of empires.

A Hearne would feel a frigid rapture, if he could diſcover the name of a Saxon mo⯑narch unrecorded in our annals; and of whom as little ſhould remain, as of the doubt⯑ful bones of a Saxon dug out of a tumulus. Such are his anecdotes!—A Hume is only intereſted with thoſe characters, who have exerted themſelves in the cauſe of huma⯑nity, and with thoſe incidents, which have ſubverted or eſtabliſhed the felicities of a people^*.

[6] Anecdotes ſerve as ma⯑terials for the hiſtory of manners. Hence the hiſtory of manners has become the prime object of the reſearches of philo⯑ſophers. How is this prominent feature in hiſtory to be depicted? The artiſt muſt not here draw at fancy, a beautiful or fantaſtical line. He muſt regard his object with mi⯑nute attention, and he muſt reflect long on a thouſand little ſtrokes, which are to give the faithful reſemblance. The hiſtorian muſt [7] aſſiduouſly arrange the minute anecdotes of the age he examines; he muſt oftener have recourſe to the diaries of individuals, than to the archives of a nation. Nothing, how⯑ever minute, muſt eſcape his reſearch, though every thing is not to be reported^*.

Various anecdotes illuſtrating the hiſtory of manners. To inform the world, that in the xvith Century, biſhops only were permitted the uſe of ſilk; that princes and princeſſes only had the prerogative of wearing ſcarlet clothes either of ſilk or of wool; and that only [8] princes and biſhops had a right to wear ſhoes made of ſilk;—ſuch anecdotes would appear trivial in the hands of a mere anti⯑quary; but they become important when touched by a philoſophical hiſtorian. Theſe little particulars awaken, in the mind of Voltaire, an admirable reflection: he ſays, ‘"All theſe ſumptuary laws only ſhew, that the government of theſe times had not al⯑ways great objects in their view; and that it appeared eaſier for miniſters to proſcribe, than to encourage induſtry."’

Had I to ſketch the ſituation of the Jews in the ninth century, and to exhibit at the ſame time the character of that age of bigotry, could I do it more effectually than by the following anecdote, which a learned friend (who will one day be celebrated for his hiſtorical reſearches) diſcovered in ſome manuſcript records?

A jew, of Rouen in Normandy, ſells a houſe to a chriſtian inhabitant of that city. After ſome time of reſidence, a ſtorm happens, lightning falls on the houſe, and does conſiderable damage. The chriſ⯑tian, unenlightened, villainous, and pious, cites the trembling deſcendant of Iſrael into [9] court for damages. His eloquent counſellor hurls an admirable philippic againſt this de⯑teſtable nation of heretics, and concludes by proving, that it was owing to this houſe hav⯑ing been the interdicted property of an Iſraelite, that a thunderbolt fell upon the roof. The judges (as it may be ſuppoſed) were not long in terminating this ſuit. They decreed that God had damaged this houſe as a mark of his vengeance againſt the property of a jew, and that therefore it was juſt the repairs ſhould be at his coſt.

Perhaps it is to be acknowledged, that the judges were merciful, and the jew for⯑tunate. To be condemned to rebuild a houſe, is better than to be burnt with ſome of it's old wood.

I ſhall add one more inſtance which may prove, that it is alone by anecdotes the genius of an age or nation is thoroughly to be un⯑derſtood.

The French nation, before their ſingular revolution, diſplayed a ſplendid ſcene of re⯑finement, of luxury, and of frivolity, which perhaps was never yet preſented to the eye of the philoſopher, on this theatre of the world. In reading the ſecret memoirs of [10] that country (a ſcandalous chronicle, which was carried on for above thirty years) one gathers many curious particulars, which can only be found in theſe fugitive leaves. Re⯑ligion was forbidden them by the philoſo⯑phers, and politics by the government. They exhauſted their active and volatile genius, on the objects of taſte; taſte, that they contrived ſhould be the image of both, for it had it's hereſies, and it's parties. The theatre, and the bookſeller's ſhop, formed the great concerns of the Pariſian. Voltaire was more to be dreaded, than the prime miniſter; and Mad. Clairon (their celebrated actreſs) appears to have enjoyed the ſovereignty of Paris.

Sometimes we obſerve, that a publication ferments the town for a week; the miniſter ſends the author to the Baſtille for a month: the book is publicly burnt, forbidden to be ſold, and every body has it by heart. The police ſometimes is ſo rigid as to put an em⯑bargo on all Mſſ.; to impriſon cenſors of books becauſe they ſuffered paſſages to be printed which appear to the court of an of⯑fenſive nature; in a word, ſeveral printers are compelled to ſell their founts, and a diſ⯑mal [11] barrenneſs appears in the literature of France.

Sometimes we perceive theatrical repre⯑ſentations to be the objects of miniſterial vengeance. They forbid a particular play, whoſe ſubject might be applicable to the moment; or even a particular paſſage of a play, which the malicious actor pronounced with emphaſis. I give an inſtance of the latter, in the note underneath.^*

But it is not my intention to fill up an elaborate picture of the French nation at theſe moments; that probably will ſoon oc⯑cupy [12] the contemplation of men of able ta⯑lents.

But I would give one ſtriking example of the national character at this period; and for this purpoſe I employ the following anecdotes.

Molé, a favourite actor, falls ill, and is confined to his chamber; when this is an⯑nounced from the ſtage, the gaiety of Paris ſuddenly lours with gloom. The next day his door is beſieged by enquiring crouds; his health is the converſation of all compa⯑nies. It appeared as if Scipio lay confined, and the virtuous Romans paſſed their hours in melancholy anxiety, for the life of their protector. The phyſicians find Molé in an exhauſted ſtate, and preſcribe a free uſe of wine. This preſcription is ſoon known in the circles at Paris; and Molé finds two thouſand bottles of the fineſt Burgundy ſent to his houſe from various quarters. Molé at length recovers; all Paris rejoices, and ruſhes to his benefit. Such was the public ardour, that it produced him the amazing ſum of 24,000 livres. Molé gratefully re⯑ceives the valuable tribute of their applauſe; he was in debt, and the benefit formed all [13] his fortune. How then does Molé apply his 24,000 livres? An Engliſhman would have purchaſed an annuity, or perhaps have paid his debts. Molé runs to the jeweller, takes its amount in brilliants, and gives them to his miſtreſs, who boaſts that ſhe wears all the honours of the public.

This ſerves to diſplay at once the frivolity of the nation, and of the individual. All Paris is concerned for the indiſpoſition of an actor, and all terminates in giving dia⯑monds to an impudent brunette.

Hiſtories compared with me⯑moirs. Of the eminent perſonages in hiſtory, we have many differing characters. We know well how the object will appear when ſeen through the coloured teleſcope of a pre⯑judiced hiſtorian. The moſt impartial may not always be ſucceſsful in his delineations. An intelligent reader frequently diſcovers traits which ſeem concealed. He does not perceive theſe faint touches in the broad canvaſs of the hiſtorian, but in thoſe little portraits which have ſometimes reached poſterity. He acquires more knowledge of indiviuals by memoirs, than by hiſtories. In hiſtories there is a majeſty, which keeps us diſtant from great men; in memoirs, [14] there is a familiarity, which invites us to approach them. In hiſtories, we appear only as one who joins the croud to ſee them paſs; in memoirs, we are like concealed ſpies, who pauſe on every little circum⯑ſtance, and note every little expreſſion.

It is thus that ſuch works as Plutarch's Lives, Froiſſart's Chronicle, the Memoirs of Comines and Brantome, Burnet's and Clarendon's Hiſtories of their own Times, have ever allured curioſity, and gratified in⯑quiry. There are indeed readers who, when they turn over the pages of hiſtory, indulge in the marvellous of romance. A viſionary perfection darts from their imagi⯑nation, and throws around a brilliant delu⯑ſion. Their heroes are, prince Arthurs; their Heroines, Unas; their Stateſmen, Merlins. It muſt be confeſſed, that in the mode in which hiſtory is frequently com⯑poſed, there are ſufficient reaſons to render ſuch a ſyſtem plauſible. One can hardly meet with the moſt natural event in the hiſtories of ſuch writers as Tacitus, of Strada, and of Mariana, but theſe refined writers are for deriving it from ſome pro⯑found policy, or intricate deception. In [15] their ſtudious leiſure, it muſt have been with difficulty that they tortured their in⯑vention to ſuch a ſtretch; an impoſſibility in thoſe perſonages who acted in the tumult of affairs, and concuſſion of public events^*. The hiſtorian frequently ſeems ignorant of that haſte, in which the moſt ſplendid actions are performed, and diſcovers a regu⯑lar plot in the irregular combinations of fortune. Every ſtateſman who comes down to us as a Neſtor, I doubt was not the ſage [16] we believe him to have been; nor every ge⯑neral, the Achilles he appears. The moſt eminent perſonages are not ſo remotely re⯑moved from the level of ordinary humanity, as the vulgar conceive. Tranſcendant powers are rarely required; tolerable abi⯑lities, placed conſpicuouſly, appear to great advantage; as a lighted torch held in the hand is too common an object to fix our at⯑tention, but that torch placed favourably on a hill, would excite our admiration. Who is perſuaded of this truth, will be more inclined to ſearch for the characters of eminent perſons in their domeſtic privacies, than in their public audiences; and would prefer the artleſs recitals of the valet de chambre of Charles I. to the elegant narra⯑tive of his apologiſt Hume.

An anecdote reveals a character. A well-choſen anecdote frequently reveals a character, more happily than an elaborate delineation; as a glance of lightning will ſometimes diſcover what had eſcaped us in a full light. Some inſtances may enforce this obſervation.

Anecdotes which diſ⯑cover the characters of eminent men. The character of Oliver Cromwell long exerciſed the hiſtorical talents of European writers. Some French academicians have [17] drawn his character with admirable refine⯑ment; Gregorio Leti, amuſed with a⯑greeable fictions; Raguenet tires with dry truths; at home, volumes on volumes have wearied curioſity. All theſe writers would perſuade us, that he was an artful mixture of the politician and the hypocrite. A ſi [...]le anecdote leads us more into the genius of the man, than this multiplicity of volumes. When he is repreſented among ſome ſelect friends, in a convivial hour, with a bottle in one hand, and bend⯑ing under the table to ſearch for the cork⯑ſcrew, a confidential ſervant enters, and announces a body of ‘'the Elect.'’—‘'Tell them'’—ſays Cromwell in the language of fanaticiſm—‘'Tell them we are ſeeking for the Lord—Theſe fools think’ (he conti⯑nues, turning to his friends) ‘'that I am ſeek⯑ing for the Lord, while I am only ſeeking for the Corkſcrew.'’

Does not this little anecdote at once preſent us with the artifices of his politics, and the hypocriſy of his religion?

The anecdote of the death of the gallant Sidney, reveals, with a marvellous force, the genius of chivalry: that genius, which [18] was valour in the field, and love at court. The hand that lead through the graceful dance the beloved ſovereign of his ſoul, while he was bleeding to death, could turn with a feeble, yet energetic power, the cruiſe of water from his pale and parched lips, to thoſe of his humble companion ex⯑piring at his feet.

We are more acquainted with the charac⯑ter of Sir Thomas More, by his jocularity on the ſcaffold, than by ſome lives which are to be read of him.

I ſhall cloſe this topic with ſome anecdo⯑tical ſketches of ſeveral monarchs, who have formed epochas in the hiſtory of their nations.

We are delighted to attend Auguſtus amidſt the embarraſſing affairs of govern⯑ment, into his domeſtic receſſes. To ſee him the preceptor of his ſon; to obſerve him at ſupper ſeated between Virgil and Horace, and to mark him with exquiſite wit eraſe one of his own tragedies. Virgil was afflicted by an aſthma, and Horace by a fiſtula lachrymalis. When Auguſtus was placed between them he uſed to ſay, not unpoetically, ‘'I am now between ſighs [19] and tears.'’ This lover of the art, aſpired to become an artiſt; he wrote a tragedy called Ajax; but he had the good ſenſe to per⯑ceive, that if he was born to be an emperor, he was not to be a poet. One day he effaced with his ſponge the whole tragedy; when it was enquired after, he wittily anſwered, ‘'Ajax is dead, he has ſwallowed his ſponge;'’ alluding to a mode of death practiſed by the Roman gladiators, who frequently in deſpair ſwallowed their ſponges. Theſe little anec⯑dotes ſhew the literary diſpoſitions of Au⯑guſtus, whom perhaps (as other great mo⯑narchs who reſemble him) a cruel ſyſtem of politics alone had made a tyrant^*.

Louis XIV. merits the love of poſterity. [20] The genuis of his people, not his own, in⯑ſpired him with attempts inimical to the rights of mankind. When this monarch is deprived of that falſe glory which his adula⯑tors have thrown around him, he will ap⯑pear to advantage, placed in the ſofter light of thoſe hours, which he devoted to the ſociety of the great men whom his ſplendid patronage had formed. Numerous anecdotes of this monarch, are eternal teſtimonies of his intellectual powers and his fine taſte. He loved the converſations of Boileau and Racine. He was not a mere auditor of their works; he admired them with exquiſite ſenſibility, and animadverted on them with juſt criti⯑ciſm. We know that he detected ſeveral errors in their works. The eye that could catch a Boileau and a Racine tripping, it muſt be confeſſed was of no ordinary quick⯑neſs. Several of theſe royal converſations have been recorded. It is honourable for the ſatyrical bard, that he had the boldneſs frequently to ſpeak his ſentiments freely; and what is ſtill more honourable, his majeſty did not diſlike his frankneſs. I give the reader one or two of thoſe intereſting anecdotes, which relate to theſe two poets.

[21] It is well known, that when Boileau read to his Majeſty one of his epiſtles, in which are theſe fine verſes, deſcribing the Empe⯑ror Titus,

his Majeſty was enchanted, and made the poet repeat them thrice. At that mo⯑ment, perhaps, he propoſed Titus for his model; ſuch was the force of poetry! The next day, he gave orders for the war; ſuch was the power of politics! When the ſa⯑tiric bard, for the firſt time after the death of Racine, paid his reſpects to the king, Louis received him with affection. He ſympathiſed in the loſs; and he added, in pulling out his watch, ‘'Remember, Boi⯑leau, I have an hour for you every week.'’

I add one more anecdote, which brings us into his apartment. When the French Auguſtus was one day confined to his cham⯑ber, he ſent for Racine. The poet read with grace; and his Majeſty aſked him to take up ſome book. A life of Plutarch was pro⯑poſed. [22] The king objected, becauſe of it's old French. ‘'Will your Majeſty permit me to try a life?'’ ſaid Racine. The king conſented. Our poet took down a volume of Amiot, and turned his obſolete language into a beautiful ſtyle. Louis was in rap⯑tures; he roſe, and embraced the poet.

It is with difficulty I can perſuade my⯑ſelf, that Charles I. would have been a ty⯑rant. The Eikon Baſilike, which I conſider as the memoirs of his heart, abounds with ſuch ſtrokes of natural feeling, and ſo pow⯑erfully excites our ſympathy, that we cannot eaſily conceive how a tyrant could have aſſumed ſuch a character. I give in the note ſome intereſting paſſages from this work^*. The following anecdote, which Mr. Malone [23] reports from the memorandums of the Ma⯑ſter of the Revels, tends to prove, that even in proſperity, he would not ſuffer his people to be inſulted by the language of deſpotiſm. The following lines were in a manuſcript play of Maſſinger;

I cannot do better than tranſcribe the words of Sir Henry Herbert. ‘'I have entered this, here, for ever to bee remembered by my ſon, and thoſe that caſt their eyes on it, in honour of king Charles, my maſter, [24] who, readinge over the play at Newmarket, ſet his marke upon the place with his owne hande and thes words, 'This is too inſolent, and to bee changed.'’ This anecdote, with others which might be given, and the whole of the eloquent Eikon Baſilike, ſtrongly indicate, that the inclinations of Charles were remote from tyranny. He was, indeed, firmly perſuaded, that a king had juſt powers, of which it was as neceſſary to be careful, as of the juſt rights of his people. Such was his conviction, that he preferred death, to what he conſi⯑dered to be ignominy.

I conclude this topic with an anecdote of the late unfortunate Louis XVI. little known, but which forcibly characterizes the diſpoſitions of this monarch. In a con⯑verſation on the ſubject of Rouſſeau's works, he ſaid, that he wiſhed it were poſſible to annihilate the Emilius, on education; be⯑cauſe, in that book, the author attacks re⯑ligion, diſturbs the ſecurity of ſociety, and the juſt ſubordination of citizens; it can only tend to render men unhappy.—But the ſocial contract has alſo a moſt dangerous tendency, obſerved a courtier.—‘'As for that,'’ [25] replied this moſt excellent prince, in words which muſt not be forgotten, ‘'it is very dif⯑ferent. It only attacks the authority of ſovereigns; that is a ſubject proper to diſ⯑cuſs. There is much to be ſaid; it is ſuſceptible of controverſy.'’

It is impoſſible to deny, that this anecdote reveals the diſpoſitions of the monarch. It is curious to obſerve, that Charles I. loſt his head, becauſe he was tenacious of his rights, and Louis XVI. becauſe he was ever prompt to yield them to his ſubjects. A ſtrik⯑ing teſtimony this, of the mad ignorance of the multitude, who know not either to go⯑vern others, or themſelves^*.

By anec⯑dotes we be⯑come ac⯑quainted with human nature. If it is not too ſolemn a queſtion for this light eſſay, I aſk in what manner is the knowledge of human nature acquired?

[26] Of ſome extraordinary minds it has been ſaid, that their knowledge is attained by that ſublime conception, which ſurveys at one glance the ſpecies, and becomes as it were by intuition, familiar with the individual. A Shakeſpeare has certainly given the moſt for⯑cible language and deſcriptions to characters and ſituations, which never paſſed under his eye. Such phenomena in nature we admire; but who would imitate? We gain our know⯑ledge by the ſlow acceſſion of multiplied facts; theſe our reflection combines, and thus combined, they form what we call experi⯑ence. Rochefoucalt, when with ſuch ener⯑getic conciſeneſs, he compoſed his celebrated Maxims, had ever ſome particular circum⯑ſtance, or ſome particular individual, before him. When he obſerved, that, ‘'It diſplays a great poverty of mind, to have only one kind of genius,'’ he drew this reflection from repeated anecdotes which he had col⯑lected in the perſons of Boileau and Racine^*. It was a very happy idea of Amelot de la Houſſaie, when he gave an edition of theſe admirable Maxims, to illuſtrate ſeveral from [27] examples, or anecdotes, drawn from hiſtory. If they were all thus illuſtrated, by well collected authorities, it would form not only a rich repaſt for amateurs of anecdotes, but impreſs more forcibly the ſolid ſenſe, ſome⯑times too cloſely compreſſed in theſe conciſe maxims^*.

The bulk of mankind indeed, when facts preſent themſelves to their contem⯑plation, are incapable of contemplating. Ignorant of their utility, they only regard them as objects of idle amuſement. Yet the ſcience of human nature, like the ſcience of phyſics, was never perfected till vague theory was rejected for certain experiment. [28] An Addiſon and a Bruyere accompany their reflections by characters; an anecdote in their hand informs us better than a whole eſſay of Seneca. Opinions are fallible, but not examples.

A writer elegantly declaims againſt the vanity of a poet; but when he judiciouſly gives a few of the innumerable inſtances of poetical vanity, we ſhall comprehend him with more certainty, and follow his reflec⯑tions with the firm conviction of truth. Would he inform us, that innumerable little follies prevail in very great minds? Every opinion is diſputable. We are perſuaded of it's truth, when he reminds us, that Sir Robert Walpole, a great miniſter, was ambi⯑tious of being a man of gallantry; and that another great miniſter, Cardinal Richelieu, was not leſs ambitious of being diſtinguiſhed as a poet; and that the one was as aukward in his compliments, as the other in his verſes. In a word, the wiſe Elizabeth was a co⯑quette. The ambitious Charles V. termi⯑nated his career by watch-making. Racine believed himſelf to be a politician.

When an author gives a character which ſtrikes by it's ſingularity, an anecdote will [29] ſerve to eſtabliſh the veracity of its exiſtence. Thus the character of the aſtronomer in Raſſelas, ſo finely deſcribed by Johnſon, is a character founded in nature. With a won⯑derful ſublimity of genius, this ſtudent is repreſented with an imbecillity little to be ſuſpected, that of believing himſelf in⯑veſted with the power of regulating the ſeaſons. A ſimilar character was this of Poſtel. His Lectures were attended by ſuch crouds, that he was obliged to harangue his auditors at a window, as the hall of the college at Paris was not ſufficiently large to contain them; yet this man, (otherwiſe ſo judicious) cheriſhed the extravagant folly of believing himſelf endowed with a ſuper⯑natural reaſon. He hoped to convert all the nations of the earth, and had ever in his mind the idea of creating an order, to be called the Knights of Chriſt; and for this purpoſe aſſociated himſelf with the jeſuits, who expelled him when they perceived his diſtempered imagination.

We cannot therefore accumulate too great a number of ſuch little facts; I ſay facts, otherwiſe we may err in our deduc⯑tions: as, when one part of a ſum is wrong, the total amount muſt infallibly be ſo. Facts [30] are anecdotes, but anecdotes are not always facts.

It is only the complaint of unreflecting minds, that we collect too many anecdotes. Why is human knowledge imperfect, but becauſe life does not allow of ſufficient years to enable us to follow the infinity of na⯑ture? The man of moſt experience, ſtill finds that he has new characters to under⯑ſtand, old opinions to confirm, and know⯑ledge to correct, as well as to acquire. Hu⯑man nature, like a vaſt machine, is not to be underſtood by looking on its ſuperficies, but by dwelling on its minute ſprings and little wheels. Let us no more then be told, that anecdotes are the little objects of a little mind.

Anecdotes lead the mind into reflections. Anecdotes will be found to poſſeſs, in ſome degree, the perfection of inſtruction. They produce in an ingenious obſerver, thoſe leading thoughts which throw the mind into an agreeable train of thinking. A ſkilful writer of anecdotes, gratifies by ſuffering us to make ſomething that looks like a diſco⯑very of our own; he gives a certain activity to the mind, and the reflections appear to ariſe from ourſelves. He throws unper⯑ceivably ſeeds, and we ſee thoſe flowers ſtart up, which we believe to be of our own [31] creation. A few pages of intereſting anec⯑dotes, afford ample food for the mind^*.

If we regard anecdotes as they are con⯑nected with the republic of letters, I do not heſitate to declare, that they offer the moſt exquiſite gratification.

On Literary Anecdotes. In literary biography, a man of genius always finds ſomething which relates to himſelf. In the hiſtory of his fellow ſtudents, a writer traces the effects of ſimilar ſtudies; he is warned by their failures, or animated by their progreſs. He diſcovers that, like himſelf, the ſublimeſt geniuſes have frequently ſtretched the bow without force, and without ſkill. He is not diſ⯑pleaſed to find that Pope compoſed an epic, a tragedy, and a comedy; that the two firſt were burnt, and the comedy damned. La Mothe was ſo ſenſibly afflicted by the unfor⯑tunate fate of his firſt dramatic eſſay, that he renounced the ſociety of men, and buried him⯑ſelf in the melancholy retreat of La Trappe. [32] He perhaps conſidered, that a condemned poet would make an excellent penitent^*.

Various anecdotes illuſtrating literary to⯑pics. From anecdotes a man of letters gathers the following particulars intereſting to him.

It is curious to obſerve the firſt dawn of genius breaking on the mind. Sometimes a man of genius, in his firſt effuſions, is ſo far from revealing his future powers, that, on the contrary, no reaſonable hope can be formed of his ſucceſs. In the violent ſtruggle of his mind, he may give a wrong direction to his talents; as Swift, in two pindaric odes, which have been unfortunately preſerved in his works. Sometimes a man of genius diſplays no talents, even among thoſe who are able to decide on them; his genius, like Aeneas, is veiled by a cloud, and remains unperceived by his aſſociates. This was the caſe of Goldſmith; who was ſo far from diſplaying a fine genius, that even his literary companions, before the publication of his beautiful poems, regarded [33] him as a compiler for the Bookſellers, not as a writer for men of taſte. Sometimes, when a writer diſplays an early genuis, it is not expreſſed with all its force. Several have began verſifiers, and concluded poets; and perhaps this is no unjuſt idea of Pope.

Is a man of genius oppreſſed with do⯑meſtic miſeries? Does he tread on thorns, while he cultivates flowers? he ceaſes to feel his own griefs, while he contemplates thoſe of his maſters. On the misfortunes of the learned, more than one volume has been compoſed^*. The domeſtic perſecu⯑tions of a man of genius are more frequent, and more formidable to his ſenſibility, than thoſe of a party or of the public. Ex⯑quiſite miſery! to feel the lacerations of the ſoul, from the objects to which it turns for repoſe and delight! An illiterate parent, who haraſſes the mild diſpoſitions of his [34] philoſophic ſon, and who counts, with all the anxiety of the father and the merchant, the hours he laviſhes on his ſtudies, has been an ordinary miſery of literary men. The father of Petrarch one day, in a barba⯑rous rage, burnt his ſmall but invaluable library before his face; and Voltaire, with a thouſand other writers, have broken their fathers' heart by their conſtant application to poetry, and utter neglect of the law^*. But [35] I haſten to conclude a liſt, which perhaps is interminable. Can we read without indignation, that the family of the great Deſcartes were inſenſible to the luſtre his ſtudies reflected on their name? They grievouſly lamented, as a blot, which could not be effaced from their arms, that Deſ⯑cartes, who was born a gentleman, ſhould become a philoſopher! This elevated genius was even denied the ſatisfaction of em⯑bracing his expiring parent; while his dwarfiſh brother, whoſe mind muſt have been as diminutive as his perſon, ridiculed his philoſophic relative, and turned to ad⯑vantage his philoſophic diſpoſitions. The ſublime Bacon generally ſat at the end of his table in a ſtate of abſtraction, while at the other his dependants cheated, ridiculed, and loaded him with infamous aſperſions. We muſt not look into the domeſtic receſſes of men of genius, if we would conſider them as beloved or happy.

The purpoſe of this Diſſertation is an at⯑tempt, however feeble, to exhibit the uti⯑lity, and the delight of anecdote in the in⯑veſtigation of any topic. I therefore ſhall [36] not wander from it, if I ſketch ſeveral ſubjects which relate to literary men, and which ſhall conſiſt of reflections, illuſtrated by anecdotes.

It has been ſaid, that Envy is only the offspring of little minds. This has been repeated from age to age; but it is one of thoſe popular prejudices which are not the leſs falſe, becauſe they are of a remote date. Of literary jealouſy, to ſelect inſtances were difficult, becauſe of their abundance. Why did Swift and Milton treat with con⯑tempt the rhimes of Dryden? Why did Corneille, tottering on the grave, when Racine conſulted him on his firſt tragedy, adviſe the author never to write another? Why does Voltaire continually detract from the ſublimity of Corneille, the ſweetneſs of Racine, and the fire of Crebillon? Why was the admirable La Fontaine not even mentioned by the French Horace in all his works? Why muſt poſterity lament that the name of Young is to be found in the Dunciad of Pope? Why did Boccaccio, in ſending to Petrarch a copy of Dante, make an apology for it? and why did the latter, in his anſwer, ſpeak coldly of Dante's merits? [37] The rigid virtue of Johnſon could not ſave him from the meaneſt envy of Garrick; nor the artleſs diſpoſitions of Goldſmith from the corroſion of literary jealouſy.

It is difficult to repreſs our indignation at this envy of writers, who ſhould look for that ſupport from each other, which is ſometimes unjuſtly denied them by the world. In contemplating on this ſubject, we are ſtruck with the ſame horror as if we were to look into a neſt of doves, and behold vipers hiſſing at each other.

We muſt feel another kind of indigna⯑tion, which falls not upon authors, but their readers. Men of genius have complained, that their acquaintance are the laſt perſons in the world, whoſe affections they can win. I collect ſeveral teſtimonies.

When the voice of the public ſhall in⯑form the friends of a man of genius, how much he merits their affection, they will be incapable of beſtowing it. A familiar ac⯑quaintance with an author (obſerves Hume) may diminiſh the applauſe due to his per⯑formance. It was the eternal miſery of Rouſſeau, that his friends did not know how much he merited their affections. On [38] this ſubject, in the 'Thirty Letters,' the acute writer^* has judiciouſly obſerved, that ‘'none judge leſs favourably of an author than his intimate friends; their perſonal knowledge of him, as a man, deſtroys a hundred deluſions to his advantage as an author.'’—Monnoye, in a letter written when he firſt made his appearance as a writer, has deſcribed the ſituation of a young author with ſenſibility and truth. Theſe are his words: ‘'You know the town I in⯑habit: one of the greateſt faults a man can have, it ſeems, is a little merit; a multi⯑tude of enemies is the certain fate of all thoſe who appear deſirous of diſtinguiſhing themſelves. You have read my poem on the aboliſhment of duels. They ſaid, at firſt, that it was good for nothing; and after the Academy had crowned it, they pretended that it was not written by me. I have ſeen myſelf blackened by the groſ⯑ſeſt calumnies.'’

A French orator exclaims, ‘'It is true, that a ſuperior genius finds himſelf ſome⯑times [39] eſteemed during his life-time; but he muſt generally ſeek for it, at the diſ⯑tance of three hundred leagues.'’ I tran⯑ſcribe, on this ſubject, what the ingenious author of the Mirror writes, perhaps prompt⯑ed by his own feelings. In mentioning the work, he ſays, ‘'The place of it's publica⯑tion was, in ſeveral reſpects, diſadvanta⯑geous. There is a certain diſtance at which writings, as well as men, ſhould be placed, in order to command our attention and reſpect. We do not eaſily allow a title to inſtruct or to amuſe the public, in our neigh⯑bour, with whom we have been accuſtom⯑ed to compare our own abilities. Hence the faſtidiouſneſs with which, in a place ſo narrow as Edinburgh, home productions are commonly received; which, if they are grave, they are pronounced dull; if pa⯑thetic, are entitled unnatural; if ludicrous, are termed low.'’ So juſt is this laſt ob⯑ſervation, that I cannot forbear noticing, that when Rouſſeau publiſhed at Neuf⯑chatel ſome little compoſitions, they were not reliſhed by his good provincial friends: a few years afterwards, they contributed to the literary pleaſures of Paris. It was [40] not the qualities of his writings that had changed, but thoſe of his readers.

If the reader does not diſreliſh theſe anec⯑dotical obſervations, he will not be diſpleaſed with another ſpecimen.

Dr. Joſeph Warton, who has employed anecdotes with ſuch pleaſing effect in his Eſſay on the Genius of Pope, has given the following one of a celebrated poet.

He writes, ‘'So little ſenſible are we of our own imperfections, that the very laſt time I ſaw Dr. Young, he was ſeverely cenſuring and ridiculing the falſe pomp of fuſtian writers, and the nauſeouſneſs of bombaſt.'’

I purſue this ſpeculation, intereſting to literature.

Of Seneca, it is obſerved in the Perro⯑niana, that he himſelf writes againſt pointed periods, and the epigrammatic ſtyle. Lip⯑ſius was extravagantly fond of a certain con⯑ciſe ſtyle; his epiſtles offend by a continued affection of this kind; yet he not only cenſures brevity, and declares it to produce a dry jejune mode of writing, but minutely enters into it's numerous defects. Cicero very warmly reprehends that abuſe, with [41] which the Greeks were accuſtomed to ſcat⯑ter their adverſaries; and who frequently paſſed from the cenſure of the work, to ſa⯑tirizing the author himſelf. But Cicero has left poſterity no few ſpecimens of the abuſive ſtyle, and the groſſeſt perſonali⯑ties. While Plato inveighs againſt poetry, he proves himſelf a great poet. It is thus Mallebranche declaims againſt the ſe⯑ductive charms of a fine imagination, while he diſplays a moſt beautiful and deluding one. Boccalini, as Bayle obſerves, makes Apollo give very judicious advice to an au⯑thor, who was hanged for too freely ſati⯑rizing ſome noble families; but our ſage adviſer himſelf loſt his life for having writ⯑ten too freely concerning the Spaniſh court^*.

[42] Burnet, in the 'Hiſtory of his own Times,' which is almoſt as fabulous as Lucian's 'True Hiſtory,' is, however, (and he was a biſhop) continually appealing to God and his conſcience for the veracity of his work. Theſe are ſome of his expreſſions: ‘'I ſo⯑lemnly ſay this to the world, and make my humble appeal upon it to the great God of truth, that I tell the truth on all occaſions'’—‘'I reckon a lie in hiſtory to be as much a greater ſin than a lie in com⯑mon diſcourſe, as the one is like to be more laſting and more generally known than the other.'’ Our biſhop had immoderate prejudices, and a lively imagination; in⯑dulging theſe to an exceſs, he left far behind him the ſober truth of ‘'a faithful chro⯑nicler.'’ Mr. Leſly, who knew him fa⯑miliarly, has well deſcribed his character, by ſaying, ‘'He was zealous for the truth, [43] but in telling it, he always turned it into a lie^*.'’

[44] Cowley, in his Ode to Wit, has the fol⯑lowing ingenious ſtanza; which, however, is [45] but a ſplendid ſatire on his own witty poetry. He ſays, WIT is not

It will not be denied, that the indiſcreet muſe of Cowley wore jewels both at her noſe and her lips.

It is thus alſo that Dr. Johnſon, in ſome admirable verſes^*, cenſures thoſe writers in whoſe plays,

In the tragedy of Irene it muſt be acknow⯑ledged that ‘'declamation roars, while paſſion ſleeps.'’

In a word, to conclude this topic, I have obſerved a hundred French writers declaim againſt the abuſe of what they ſo happily [46] call le bel eſprit; while they are them⯑ſelves employing it in every period—a hundred Engliſh authors abuſing the French writers, while at the ſame time their work and their ſtyle are alike an imitation of them.

If I were to make the following obſerva⯑tion, I would accompany it with the follow⯑ing anecdotes.

A man of genius conſumes one portion of his life in painful ſtudies; another in ad⯑dreſſing his labours to the public, and com⯑bating with his rivals; in the laſt inconſi⯑derable remnant of life, he perhaps begins to enjoy that public eſteem for which he had ſacrificed the ſolid conſolations of life, his fortune, his tranquillity, in a word, his domeſtic Lares. Amidſt the funereal cy⯑preſs he ſees the green leaves of the laurel. He reſembles a veteran ſoldier, who ſhould, at the moment he is carried from the trenches in an expiring ſtate, re⯑ceive the honours of promotion. When he is once removed from the public and his rivals, there is nothing they refuſe him.

Every little thing that belonged to this man [47] of genius becomes an invaluable relic. The living Shakeſpeare experienced little of that adoration which has been repeatedly paid to him by poſterity. Little did he imagine that the Mulberry Tree which he planted (ſup⯑poſing he did plant it) would have been ſought after with as much eagerneſs as a pious Catholic ſhews for a piece of the real croſs. Thomſon never imagined that his old chair ^* would have been beheld with the eyes of adoration by his countrymen. Rabelais, among all his drolleſt imagina⯑tions, never conceived that his cloak would be preſerved in the univerſity of Montpellier, that thoſe who are received as doctors ſhould wear it on the day they take their degree.

Such is the public! long miſled by the [48] malice of rivals, their deciſions are capri⯑cious, irreſolute, and unjuſt. Poſterity, while it cenſures the paſt age, commits the ſame injuſtice to its cotemporaries. It ex⯑hauſts its admiration on an old tree, an old chair, and an old cloak, while the modern Shakeſpeares, Thomſons, and Rabelais (if there ſhould be any) would paſs unob⯑ſerved by its injudicious applauſe.

I ſhall add one more ſketch of a literary topic.

Men of genius catch inſpiration from that of others. Their mind is not always pre⯑pared to pour forth its burning ideas; it is kindled by the flame which it ſtrikes from the colliſion of the works of great writers. It was thus that Cicero informs us that he animated his eloquence by a conſtant peru⯑ſal of the poetry of the Latins and Greeks. Poets awaken their imagination by the verſes of other poets. Malherbe, Corneille, and Racine, before they applied themſelves to compoſition, put their mind into its proper tone, by repeating the glowing paſſages of their favourite poets. The moſt fervid verſes of Homer, and the ſweeteſt of [49] Euripides, enriched the memory of Mil⯑ton^*. It is related of Boſſuet, that before he compoſed a funeral oration, he was ac⯑cuſtomed to withdraw for four or five days into his ſtudy, and read Homer. When he was aſked the reaſon of this practice, he expreſſed himſelf in theſe verſes,

Marville ſays, that the famous orators in the pulpit and at the bar, of his time, uſed to read the fineſt paſſages of the poets, to germinate thoſe ſeeds of eloquence which nature had ſcattered in their ſouls. It was thus alſo, that a celebrated preacher boldly copied Seneca, the tragedian, in the violent paſſions he aſſumed; and one leſs ardent, but more tender, interwove in his ſermons pieces taken from Ovid. One pleader would only breathe the fury of Juvenal; another diſplayed the graceful turns which he had borrowed from Horace.

[50] Collections of anecdotes ſerve as an excellent ſubſtitute for the conver⯑ſations of eminent writers. We now turn to the conſideration of thoſe literary collections which give the anecdotes and converſations of celebrated men.

The converſations of ſcholars have been collected in ages of literature. That they have not been formed with that care, and that ſelection they merited, has been the only cauſe of their having fallen into diſrepute. With ſuch ſubſtitutes we are enabled, in no ordinary degree, to realiſe the ſociety of thoſe who are no more; and to become more real cotemporaries with the great men of another age, than were even their cotempo⯑raries themſelves.

Are we not all deſirous of joining the ſociety of eminent men? It is a wiſh of even the illiterate. But the ſenſibility of genius ſhrinks tremblingly from the contact of the vulgar, and the arrogance of learning will not deſcend to their level. They prefer a contemplative ſilence, rather than incur the chance of being inſulted by their admiration.

Few therefore can be admitted to their converſations. Yet when a man of genius diſplays converſible talents, his converſations are frequently more animated, more ver⯑ſatile, [51] and, I muſt add, more genuine than his compoſitions. Such literary converſa⯑tions may be compared to waters which flow from their ſource; but literary writings reſemble more frequently an ornamented fountain, whoſe waters are forced to elevate themſelves in artificial irregularities, and ſparkling tortuoſities.

Theſe collections are productive of utility. A man of letters learns from a little conver⯑ſation which has been fortuitouſly preſerved; a caſual hint which was gathered as it fell; and an obſervation which its author might never have an occaſion to inſert in his works, numberleſs myſteries in the art of literary compoſition; and thoſe minute cir⯑cumſtances which familiarize us to the genius of one whom we admire, and whom ſometimes we aſpire to imitate.

Obſervations on the de⯑light of lite⯑rary hiſtory. Literary hiſtory has indeed been purſued with a paſſionate fondneſs by our firſt ſcholars. I will not wander from home on this occaſion, though our neighbours far ſurpaſs us in this pleaſing ſpecies of erudi⯑tion. Dr. Johnſon has ſaid, ‘'It was what he moſt loved.'’ It is curious to obſerve, that he begins his Biography of our Poets, [52] by a complaint of ‘'the penury of Engliſh biography.'’ It is the regret of one who felt all it's charms, and who perhaps lamented that he could not much improve its miſerable fund. Dr. Warburton has called literary hiſtory, ‘'the moſt agreeable ſubject in the world.'’ Dr. Warton, in his Eſſay on the Genius of Pope, has pre⯑ſented us with an admirable ſpecimen in what manner literary anecdote may be in⯑troduced for the illuſtration of an author, and delight of the reader. Peliſſon, in his Hiſtory of the French Academy, has made an obſervation on literary hiſtory, which will find an echo in the boſom of every man of letters. He writes, ‘'Had we any particulars remaining of what paſſed between Auguſtus, Mecenas, and the cele⯑brated wits of their age, I know not whe⯑ther we ſhould read this hiſtory with leſs curioſity and delight than that of the wars, and affairs of the government of thoſe times. Perhaps (to ſay ſomething more) we ſhould not read it with leſs utility and inſtruction: we, I ſay, to whom Fortune has given, nor armies to conduct, nor politics to govern; but to whom ſhe has [53] only bequeathed ſtudy, converſation, and the domeſtic virtues.'’ Literary anec⯑dotes carry with them ſo powerful an at⯑traction, that we conſult with pleaſure the Athenae Oxonienſes of Anthony Wood, though compoſed in a hard, dry, and re⯑pulſive ſtyle. Another work of a congenial caſt, is Hawkins's Life of Johnſon, whoſe genius revived that of the ſour Wood. Mr. Nichols, in his Life of Bowyer, has made a moſt valuable acceſſion of cotem⯑porary anecdote; perhaps a happier ar⯑rangement, and a more copious criticiſm, are deſireable. Mr. Boſwell, in his Life of Johnſon, has exquiſitely gratified the ama⯑teur of literary anecdotes. To compare it with Monnoye's edition of the Menagiana, would not be doing juſtice to this work, which is almoſt as ſingular in it's nature, as it's merit. It is with pleaſure that I per⯑ceive of late, that ſeveral writers of taſte have not conſidered it as beneath their powers to become commentators. Mr. T. Warton, Mr. Steevens, Mr. Malone, and Dr. Farmer, ſtand eminently diſtinguiſhed in this claſs of literature, which has hitherto been aſſigned to writers of low talents. [54] Theſe critics have felt all the charms of li⯑terary hiſtory; and their curious reſearches intereſt us much more by the pleaſure we feel in their peruſal, than by that recondite erudition in Engliſh literature, which they ſo admirably diſplay^*.

[55] Literary biography cannot be accompliſh⯑ed without a copious uſe of anecdote. Without the uſe of literary anecdote, it is in vain to attempt literary biography.

A biographer ſhould be more ſolicitous of diſplaying the genius of the man whoſe hiſ⯑tory he writes, than his own. He ſhould not obtrude his own talents on the eye, ſo much as thoſe of the perſon whoſe life he records. Some have written the life of ano⯑ther, merely to ſhew that they were them⯑ſelves fine writers.

When Richardſon, the father, gave the life of Milton, he did not compoſe it in the ordinary ſtyle of biographers. If we take away ſome of his excentricities, his manner is admirable. It is very poſſible to write the life of a poet, a lord chancellor, and a general, almoſt in a ſimilar ſtyle^*. What [56] is the conſequence of ſuch idle biography? With much trouble we find, at length, that the genius of either remains yet to be known. One poet is made to reſemble another; and, what is worſe, a poet reſembles a lord chan⯑cellor. Richardſon, a Miltonic enthuſiaſt, was beſt qualified to give the biography of Milton an enthuſiaſt. He did not remain ſatisfied with collecting the information which induſtrious enquiry produced, but he ſtudied to give the character of Milton from his own deſcriptions. He connected, with an ardour of reſearch, for which poſterity ſhould be grateful, from all his works, in verſe and in proſe, the minute circumſtances, and peculiar ſentiments, which our ſublime poet had recorded of himſelf.

In reading this ſketch of the manners, and the genius, of Milton, we ſeem to live with him; we participate in the momen⯑tary griefs which afflicted him, and the momentary triumphs in which he exulted. We join the old blind bard at the door of his houſe, near Bunhill-fields^*; we ſee him ſit there in a grey coarſe cloth coat, in the [57] warm ſunny weather, breathing the freſh air. His houſe is, indeed, ſmall, (and what true poet ever poſſeſſed a large one?) It has but one room on a floor. Up one pair of ſtairs, hung in ruſty green, ſits John Mil⯑ton, in an elbow chair, in black clothes, yet neat enough. Pale, but not cadaverous; his hands gouty.

And what does Milton ſay on his blind⯑neſs, when his enemies reproach him with it as a crime? Theſe are his words, taken from his ſecond defence of the Engliſh nation: ‘'I prefer my blindneſs to your's,'’ (he addreſſes his adverſaries) ‘'your's is ſunk into your deepeſt ſenſes, blinding your minds, ſo that you can ſee nothing that is ſound and ſolid. Mine takes from me only the colour and ſurface of things, but does not take away from the mind's con⯑templation, what is in thoſe things of true and conſtant. Moreover, how many things are there which I would not ſee! How many which I can be debarred the ſight without repining! How few left which I much deſire to ſee! Vile men! who mock us! The blind have a protection from the in⯑juries of men, and we are rendered almoſt [58] ſacred. To this I impute, that my friends are more ready and officious to ſerve me than before, and more frequently viſit me. They do not think that the only worth of an honeſt man is placed in his eyes.'’

Richardſon would have conſidered him⯑ſelf as fortunate, had he been enabled to add another lively ſcene to the domeſtic life of Milton. This has been obtained by the late laureat, who, in his ſecond edition of his juvenile poems, has given the nuncupative will of our poet. I gather from a maſs of the barren ſuperfluities of legal information, thoſe intereſting ſtrokes with which every man of ſenſibility and taſte will ſympathize. We muſt recollect, that at the period to which they relate, Milton was no more the ſecretary of the commonwealth, and his friends were deſtroyed or diſperſed. Theſe little facts deſcribe more forcibly than the moſt eloquent declamation, thoſe ſecret miſeries which preyed on the heart of Milton, and which muſt not only have diſturbed his ſub⯑lime contemplations, but impeded the vi⯑gour of his fancy, and the corrections of his criticiſm.

It is here we learn that his children com⯑bined to cheat and to rob him; to embitter [59] his hours with ſcorn and diſaffection; and far from ſolacing the age of their venerable, their ſublime parent, they became impatient of his death. He had

The name of Milton muſt be added to the melancholy catalogue of the unhappy learned. Behold the great Milton, blind, decrepid, poor, and ſolitary (for ſolitary he muſt then have been amidſt thoſe who now ſurrounded him) ſeated by a little fire in his kitchen, crying to his wife, with a voice of patient grief, ‘'Make much of me as long as I live.'’—When his meat is brought to him, becauſe it is made agreeable to his taſte (for he was delicate though temperate) he exclaims with grateful pleaſure to his wife, ‘'God have mercy, Betty, I ſee thou wilt perform according to thy promiſe, in providing me ſuch diſhes as I think fit, whilſt I live.'’—Such is our own domeſtic language, and ſuch was the domeſtic language of the ſublimeſt genius. Genius is not above the little conſolations of humanity.

Let me reflect a moment on the ſcene that occupies my imagination. Men of [60] genius! the reflection is addreſſed to you. Milton had perhaps wandered in the fields of fancy, and conſoled his blindneſs with liſtening to the voice of his nation, that was to have reſounded with his name. To Virgil, and Taſſo, and Arioſto, not his maſters but his rivals, their country had not been ungrateful. One had baſked in the ſunſhine of a court; the other had ſeen the laurel wreath prepared for him at Rome; and the laſt lived to hear his name repeated in the ſtreets, and ſaluted as the poet of his nation. Milton had enriched his na⯑tional poetry with two epics—what were his rewards? Milton conſidered himſelf as fortunate in having one female who did not entirely abandon him; and one obſcure fanatic, who was pleaſed with his poems becauſe they were religious. What laurels! What felicities!

Anecdotes conſidered as a ſource of literary amuſement ſuperior to romances. On anecdotes judiciouſly arranged, another obſervation is to be made.

Men of letters, to unbend from their feverer ſtudies, have frequently had recourſe [61] to the works of mere imagination. Ro⯑mances have been admitted into their libraries; they fly

To folace mental fatigue by the amuſe⯑ments of fancy, is no loſs of time. Students know how often the eye is buſied in wandering over the page, while the mind lies in torpid inactivity; they therefore compute their time, not by the hours con⯑ſumed in ſtudy, but by the real acquiſitions they obtain; they do not number the voyages they make, but the gold and the diamonds they bring home. A man of letters beſt feels the truth of the maxim of Heſiod when applied to time, that ‘'Half is better than the whole.'’ But it is a complaint of inge⯑nious minds, that when they deviate into the gardens of Armida, they want the fortitude of Rogero to exile themſelves from their enchantments. Yet works of amuſement muſt relieve thoſe of learning. If a ſtudent values his hours, it is therefore as dangerous for him to read romances, as it would be not to read them.

[62] It is perhaps more deſireable to have ſuch literary collections at hand. Anecdotes gratify the eaſe of indolence by their con⯑ciſeneſs, and the love of novelty by that in⯑finite variety which they preſent to the mind. Perhaps the intereſt they excite is ſuperior to that we feel in a work of ima⯑gination. It muſt be felt ſo at leaſt by the enthuſiaſtic votary, who approaches his maſters with anxiety, with curioſity, with admiration.

What painter but muſt receive an exqui⯑ſite gratification in this anecdote of Pouſſin? ‘'I ſaw Pouſſin (ſays Marville) during my reſidence at Rome. I have frequently ad⯑mired the exceſſive love this excellent painter had for the perfection of his art. Old as he then was, I have met him among the ruins of ancient Rome, and ſometimes in the country, and on the bor⯑ders of the Tiber, ſketching whatever he remarked the moſt to his taſte. I have ſeen him frequently return with his hand⯑kerchief full of ſtones, moſs, flowers, and ſimilar objects, which he was deſirous of painting exactly after nature. I aſked him one day by what means he had attained [63] that high excellence which had placed him ſo eminently among the Italian painters; he anſwered modeſtly, I have neglected nothing.'’

And what poet is not intereſted in this literary anecdote of a kindred nature, which Johnſon has recorded of Pope? I do not venture to change his expreſſions: ‘'From his attention to poetry he was never di⯑verted. If converſation offered any thing that could be improved, he committed it to paper. If a thought, or perhaps an ex⯑preſſion more happy than was common, roſe to his mind, he was careful to write it; an independant diſtich was preſerved, for an opportunity of inſertion; and ſome little fragments have been found contain⯑ing lines, or parts of lines, to be wrought upon at ſome other time.'’

From theſe anecdotes I conclude, that a ſtudent muſt be more intereſted in what re⯑lates to a Pouſſin and a Pope, than to a Sir Charles Grandiſon and a Tom Jones. Such notices as the above, relating to illuſtrious characters, are ſo many incidents in the vo⯑luminous romance of life; and when ſuch names are mentioned, they are ſufficient to [64] excite that anxious curioſity which is the perfection of fiction. Inſtead of one hero, we have thus a thouſand, in whoſe cauſe we equally participate.

Let us alſo reflect, that though ſuch anec⯑dotes form a ſource of literary amuſement, they convey at the ſame time ſome of it's moſt valuable inſtructions. We learn from theſe anecdotes of Pouſſin and of Pope, that a painter muſt bring home moſs and flowers, and a poet ſentiments and images. There is nothing ſo minute, that may be neg⯑lected; nothing ſo vaſt but which may eſ⯑cape; we muſt therefore habituate our mind to ſtudious attention, as much out of our cabinet, as in it. The painter does not always require his eaſel to paint, nor the poet his poem to compoſe; their genius accompanies them in their walks, and in their converſations.

Another reflection offers itſelf to my mind.

The [...]nſtruc⯑tions which an artiſt may [...]rive from anecdotes. The ſtudies of artiſts have a great unifor⯑mity. They have all the ſame difficulties to encounter, though they do not all meet the ſame glory. It is alſo certain, that ſeveral men of genius have ſeen their la⯑bours [65] neglected for their deficiency in that art of finiſhing, which is the excellence of art. An artiſt has many artifices to employ, of which, if he is ignorant, he will never at⯑tain that rank which he otherwiſe would merit. It is not probable that the zeal of his friends, nor even the malice of his cri⯑tics, will be capable of diſcovering to him thoſe myſteries of which he is ignorant, or thoſe failings which render his attempts fruitleſs. Such arts of compoſition are alone to be attained by patient meditation on his own, and on the labours of others. It will be impoſſible for him to turn over a ſeries of anecdotes, ſkilfully arranged, and en⯑lightened by reflections, but he will gain ſome valuable intelligence which relates to his own ſtudies. From one, he learns in what manner he corrected, and he planned; from another in what manner he overcame thoſe obſtacles, which perhaps at that very moment obſtructed his progreſs, and made him riſe in deſpair from his own unfiniſhed labour. What perhaps he had in vain de⯑ſired for half his life, is revealed to him by an anecdote. It is thus that the recrea⯑tions of indolence may impart the vigour of [66] ſtudy; as we find ſometimes in the fruit we took for pleaſure, the medicine that reſtores our health.

Anecdotes of various uſe to wri⯑ters. It is neceſſary that the mind of a writer ſhould be richly ſtored with anecdotes of all kinds. The moſt unconnected anecdote may be advantageouſly employed. Anec⯑dotes will ſerve to enliven his writings by a pleaſing diverſity; to ſtrengthen his opinions by a happy illuſtration; and they will afford him a fund of ingenious alluſions. I have given ſufficient examples of the firſt kinds; I add one of the latter. In N^o 172 of the Rambler, that great moraliſt thus expreſſes himſelf, ‘'A Virginian king, when the Eu⯑ropeans had fixed a lock on his door, was ſo delighted to find his ſubjects admitted or excluded with ſuch facility, that it was from morning to evening his whole employ⯑ment to turn the key. We, among whom locks and keys have been longer in uſe, are inclined to laugh at this American amuſement; yet I doubt whether this pa⯑per will have a ſingle reader that may not apply this ſtory to himſelf, and recollect ſome hours of his life, in which he has been equally overpowered by the tranſitory [67] charms of trifling novelty.'’ By this anec⯑dote of the Virginian king we may perceive in what manner the ingenuity of a writer may employ, for the happieſt application, the moſt trifling and unconnected anec⯑dote.

To return to the ſubject of anecdotes re⯑lating to literary men. There are ſome who appear born with an antipathy to anec⯑dotes. They exclaim, ‘'Give me no anec⯑dotes of an author, but give me his works.'’ This contempt is erroneous, and prejudicial to literature.

Anecdotes of an author ſerve as comments on his works. One likes to know the hiſtory and the oc⯑caſion of a work; and above all the cha⯑racter of an author. It is certain that theſe little circumſtances ſerve greatly to lead us into his genius, and the proper underſtand⯑ing of many paſſages. This is very neceſ⯑ſary in political writings, in memoirs, and ſuch as are entitled hiſtories of our own time. We, of all other nations, abound with party writers; and it is ſometimes even neceſſary not only to know the character of an author, but the very date of his publications. Every true Briton is doubtleſs a diſintereſted pa⯑triot, yet he rarely appears inſenſible to the [68] offer, or the refuſal of a penſion; our poli⯑tics are as various as our atmoſphere. They are divided too into as many ſects as our religion. The bigotry of toryiſm is ſeen ſometimes to terminate in the atheiſm of whiggiſm. An Engliſhman is for ſaving his ſoul and the nation in the way that he likes beſt.

Anecdotes of hiſtorical writers very neceſſary for the reader of their works. It is therefore very uſeful to have anec⯑dotes of ſuch writers. When we read Par⯑ker's Hiſtory of his own Time, we ceaſe to be ſurpriſed at ſeeing the celebrated Mar⯑vell treated as an outcaſt of ſociety; an in⯑famous libeller; and one whoſe talents were as deſpicable as his perſon. We know that this deſcription was dictated not only by the hatred of party, but by that of perſonal rancour. When we read Froiſſart, we muſt not be miſled by his apparent ſimplicity and captivating naiveté; we muſt remember, that he lived in our country, an adulator of Queen Philippa and the Engliſh court. When we read Comines, it will not be im⯑proper to recollect this anecdote^*. This writer had been born a ſubject, and had been [...] a favourite of the Duke of Bur⯑gundy. [69] Returning from the chace, he one day ſat down before his prince, and jocoſely ordered him to pull off his boots. It is not leſs unjuſt than dangerous, to amuſe one's ſelf with a prince. The duke pulled off his boots, and daſhed them in Comines' face, which bled freely. From that time he was mortified at the court of Burgundy by the nick-name of the booted head. Comines felt the wound in his mind. He ſoon after⯑wards went over to the king of France. It was at that court he compoſed his Memoirs, in which his old patron, the Duke of Bur⯑gundy, is repreſented a [...] a monſter of pride, of tyranny and cruelty. I am afraid that if we cloſely examine into the anecdotes of the writers of memoirs, we ſhall find that many, like Comines, have had the boot daſhed in their face.

I ſhall not diſmiſs this topic, without ſeiz⯑ing the opportunity it affords, of diſcloſing to the public an anecdote which ſhould not have been hitherto concealed from it. When ſome hiſtorians meet with any infor⯑mation in favour of thoſe perſonages whom they have choſen to execrate as it were ſyſ⯑tematically, they employ forgeries, interpo⯑lations, [70] or, ſtill more effectual villainies. Mrs. Macaulay, when ſhe conſulted the Mſſ. at the Britiſh Muſeum, was accuſtomed in her hiſtorical reſearches, when ſhe came to any paſſage unfavourable to her party, or in favour of the Stuarts, to deſtroy the page of the Mſ! Theſe dilapidations were at length perceived, and ſhe was watched. The Harleian Mſ. 7379, will go down to poſterity as an eternal teſtimony of her hiſtorical impartiality. It is a collection of ſtate letters. This Mſ. has three pages entirely torn out; and it has a note, ſigned by the principal librarian, that on ſuch a day the Mſ. was delivered to her, and the ſame day the pages were found to be deſtroyed.

Addiſon's obſervation on anecdotes illuſtrated. There is not leſs ſerious truth than exqui⯑ſite humour, in the well-known obſervation with which Addiſon opens his Spectators. He ſays, ‘'I have obſerved that a reader ſel⯑dom peruſes a book with pleaſure, until he knows whether the writer of it be a black or a fair man, of a mild or choleric diſpoſition, with other particulars of the like nature, that conduce very much to the right underſtanding of an author.'’

I confeſs I ſhall read the works of the [71] three great Italian writers, Dante, Petrarch, and Boccacio, with a more refined delight, ſince I have become acquainted with their portraits, elaborately drawn by Tiraboſchi^*. From this excellent writer I am informed that Dante was much given to muſing, and inclined to melancholy; that he had ſome⯑thing like pride in his nature; ſilent in or⯑dinary company, but when he ſpoke every word was deeply thought. His converſa⯑tion was as ſatirical concerning thoſe he did not eſteem, as it was grateful to his friends and patrons. Such was the poet of the ſombrous and ſatiric Inferno!

He who is the model of tender ſonnets, and the poet of the Loves and the Graces, was beautiful in his perſon, enchanting in his converſation, while his eloquence en⯑raptured his delighted auditors. He knew to vary his employments; to fly from the court into the depth of ſolitude^†; and it was thus that this amiable genius became as learned as he was accompliſhed.

[72] The licentious writer of the moſt agree⯑able proſe in Italian literature, had neither the ſublime melancholy of Dante, nor the enchanting politeneſs of Petrarch. In the travels which, in his youthful years, he made in the character of a merchant, he had acquired his variety of knowledge of human nature, and a decided taſte for that freedom of gaiety, which does not always ſpare the bluſhes of the modeſt, and the tremors of the pious. Love, good eating, and polite literature, were his divinities. He was big and corpulent, an able drinker, an excellent companion, and an adorer of the ladies. The prieſts, at length, frightened poor Boc⯑cacio, as they afterwards did his happy diſciple La Fontaine. Boccacio ſuddenly became re⯑ſerved, ſolitary, and melancholy; his ſtudies [73] partook of his diſpoſitions, for, after his con⯑verſion, (Tiraboſchi ſays) he produced no⯑thing that we can read. One is inclined to lament that he became religious.

It is not amiſs, when one reads the mi⯑ſanthropic works of Hobbes, to recollect, that the philoſopher of Malmeſbury wrote many of them in a manner which, perhaps, has rendered them ſo rugged. We are told, that ſoon after dinner he would retire into his ſtudy, and have his candle, with ten or twelve pipes, placed by him; then ſhut⯑ting the door, he began ſmoaking, thinking, and writing. From a man who would ſmoke at his writings ten pipes, it was but natural they ſhould retain ſomething of the dull effluvia of the tobacco. Such an one might be a philoſophic politician, but not a poetic philanthropiſt.

Yet let it not be conſidered, that, how⯑ever ſenſible I may appear to the charms of ſtriking anecdotes, I do not perceive that frequently they are frivolous, inſipid, and inconſequential. Many collectors of anec⯑dotes have ſhewn, by their inability, that ſome talents are requiſite, to render them valuable; ſome taſte in their ſelection, [74] ſome judgment in their arrangement, and ſome elegance in their ſtyle. A writer of talents ſees relations in anecdotes not perceiv⯑ed by others. A man of pe⯑netration ſees relations in anecdotes, which are not immediately perceived by others; in his hands anecdotes (even ſhould they be familiar to us) are made ſuſceptible of a thouſand novel turns. We have only to ex⯑amine the Eloges of the French academi⯑cians, compoſed by Fontenelle and D'Alem⯑bert, to perceive in what manner literary anecdotes ſhould be preſented, and to moſt of our writers to ſee how they ſhould not be given.

A model of anecdotical compoſi⯑tion. As the deſign of this Eſſay is to ſhew in what manner any topic may be enforced, or illuſtrated, by anecdotes, (rather than the manner in which any ſingle anecdote may be given) I prefer to offer, as a model of this ſpecies of anecdotical compoſition, ſome parts of the Critical Reflections on Poetry and Painting, by Du Bos. This work is fami⯑liarly known to, and ardently cheriſhed by every man of taſte, ſo that I ſhall not ven⯑ture to dwell longer on it than is neceſſary to communicate my idea. When this in⯑genious reflector would eſtabliſh the obſer⯑vation, [75] that ‘'the impulſe of genius deter⯑mines thoſe who were born with it, to become a painter or poet,'’ he ſhews, by a ſeries of connected anecdotes, that moſt of the celebrated artiſts were never born the ſons of painters^*. As for poets, they are ſtill a more ſtriking teſtimony of this impulſe of genius. No father ever yet deſigned his ſon to aſſume the profeſſion of a poet. We cannot doubt of the truth of theſe obſerva⯑tions, when we read that variety of anecdotes which he has united with ſuch taſte, and which eſtabliſh the great principle of the impulſe of genius. There are other ſec⯑tions in this delightful work, which charm and inſtruct us by the happy manner in which he has interwoven among his reflec⯑tions, a ſeries of intereſting anecdotes.

Of frivolous anecdotes. I haſten now to conclude this Eſſay, by noticing, when anecdotes become frivolous and impertinent given by writers deſtitute of talents.

Dr. Johnſon, who has devoted one of his periodical papers to a defence of anecdotes (ſome part of which has been properly quoted by Mr. Boſwell) expreſſes himſelf [76] thus, on certain collectors of anecdotes: ‘'They are not always ſo happy as to ſelect the moſt important. I know not well what advantage poſterity can receive from the only circumſtance by which Tickell has diſtinguiſhed Addiſon from the reſt of mankind, the irregularity of his pulſe; nor can I think myſelf overpaid for the time ſpent in reading the life of Malherbe, by being enabled to relate, after the learned biographer, that Malherbe had two predo⯑minant opinions; one, that the looſeneſs of a ſingle woman might deſtroy all her boaſt of ancient deſcent; the other, that the French beggars made uſe, very impro⯑perly and barbarouſly, of the phraſe noble gentleman, becauſe either word included the ſenſe of both.'’

Theſe juſt obſervations may, perhaps, be further illuſtrated by the following notices. An admirable writer of anecdotes (whom I ſhall not name on this occaſion) has informed the world, that many of our poets have been handſome. This, certainly, neither concerns the world nor their poetry. It is trifling to tell us, that Dr. Johnſon was accuſtomed ‘'to cut his nails to the quick.'’ It is, perhaps, ve⯑nial; [77] becauſe Mr. Boſwell, who gives this intelligence, muſt feel an intereſt in the mi⯑nuteſt circumſtance which related to him. I am not much gratified by being informed, that Menage wore a greater number of ſtockings than any other perſon, excepting one, whoſe name I have really forgotten. The biographer of Cujas, a celebrated law⯑yer, ſays, that two things were remarkable of this ſcholar. The firſt, that he ſtudied on the floor, lying on his belly on a carpet, with his books about him; and, ſecondly, that his perſpiration exhaled an agreeable ſmell, which he uſed to inform his friends he had in common with Alexander the Great! This admirable biographer ſhould have told us, if he frequently turned from his very uneaſy attitude. Somebody informs us, that Guy Patin reſembled Cicero, whoſe ſtatue is preſerved at Rome; on which he enters into a compariſon of Patin with Ci⯑cero. He ſhould have recollected, that he might have reſembled the ſtatue of Cicero, but not Cicero himſelf. Baillet loads his life of Deſcartes with a thouſand minutiae, which leſs diſgrace the philoſopher than the [78] biographer. Was it worth while informing the public, that Deſcartes was very parti⯑cular about his wigs; that he had them manufactured at Paris; and that he always kept four? That he wore green taffety in France; but that, in Holland, he quitted taffety for cloth; and that he was fond of omelets of eggs? There are writers who cannot diſtinguiſh between ſuch frivolous particulars, and thoſe anecdotes which con⯑vey ſome ſtriking ſentiment, characteriſtic of a ſublime genius. It muſt alſo be confeſſed, that there are readers, who, when they meet with intereſting anecdotes of illuſtrious men, rank them with ſuch frivolous particulars.

Trifling a⯑necdotes ſometimes to be ex⯑cuſed. Yet of anecdotes which appear trifling, ſomething may be alledged in their defence. It is certainly ſafeſt, for ſome writers, to give us all they know, than to permit themſelves the power of rejection; becauſe, for this, there requires a certain degree of taſte and diſcernment, which many biographers are not ſo fortunate as to poſſeſs. Let us ſome⯑times recollect, that the page over which we toil, will probably furniſh materials for au⯑thors of happier talents. I would rather [79] have a Birch, or a Hawkins, appear heavy, cold, and prolix, than that any thing which concerns a Tillotſon or a Johnſon ſhould be loſt. It muſt alſo be confeſſed, that an anecdote, or a circumſtance, which may appear inconſequential to a reader, may bear ſome remote or latent connection, which a mature reflection often diſcovers. It is cer⯑tain, that a biographer, who has long con⯑templated the character he records, ſees many relations which eſcape an ordinary reader. On this ſubject I ſhall quote the judicious obſervation of Dr. Kippis; a writer to whom Engliſh literature owes much, and whoſe life is precious to every man of letters. Our biographer, in cloſing the life of Dr. Birch, has formed an apology for that minute reſearch, which, it is ſaid, this writer has carried to a blameable exceſs. He writes, ‘'It may be alledged in our author's favour, that a man who has a deep and ex⯑tenſive acquaintance with a ſubject, often ſees a connection and importance in ſome ſmaller circumſtances, which may not im⯑mediately be diſcerned by others; and, on that account, may have reaſons for inſerting [80] them that will eſcape the notice of ſuper⯑ficial minds^*.'’

Character of a writer of anec⯑dotes. I ſhall now cloſe this Diſſertation, by at⯑tempting to ſketch the character of a writer of anecdotes.

To collect anecdotes, is the humble la⯑bour of induſtry; but not to preſent them with reflection, with acumen, and with taſte.

It is a taſk, not unworthy of genius, to arrange theſe minute notices of human na⯑ture, [81] and of human learning. A writer might yet delight us, by a collection of topics which ſhould illuſtrate manners, hiſtory, and literature: his talents muſt be verſatile, yet powerful. A writer of anecdotes has difficulties to encounter, from which the biographer is exempt. A biographer has but the peculiarities of an individual to ſeize; he has only to aſſimilate his genius to that of another perſon. He plays but with one ball, and practice will teach his hand to graſp it with adroitneſs: a writer of anec⯑dotes throws with ſeveral. It becomes ne⯑ceſſary for ſuch an one to render himſelf familiar with the multiform ſhapes of na⯑ture herſelf. Is ſuch a writer to give anecdotes of a Gray, a Milton, or a Sterne? his ſoul muſt be ſoftened with the querulous melancholy of Gray; auſtere with the re⯑publican fierceneſs of Milton; and varied with the gaiety and the pathos of Sterne. Anecdotes are but ſqualid ſkeletons, unleſs they are full of the blood and fleſh of re⯑flection. If our writer does not feel with the ſenſibility of taſte, his reflections may be juſt, but trivial; his ſtyle muſt be diver⯑ſified by the variety of paſſion; he muſt [82] know to mourn and to rejoice. Does he preſent the anecdotes of war, of perſecution, of ſuperſtition—his periods muſt aſſume a higher tone; his ſentiments muſt overflow his facts; and his heart muſt be more occu⯑pied than his memory. Does he give the anecdotes of conviviality, of wit, and of cri⯑ticiſm—his ſtyle muſt be ſharp with epi⯑grammatic pungency, or embelliſhed with a thouſand graces^*. He is no inferior artiſt who muſt occaſionally alarm with the ter⯑rifying ſublimity of an Angelo, or enchant with the ſoftened beauty of an Albano.

A writer of anecdotes ſhould write of emi⯑nent characters, as they would themſelves have written of others. He muſt therefore poſſeſs a portion of that genius which he records.

If I have not raiſed the character of ſuch an author to an unneceſſary and imaginary perfection, our writers of anecdotes have yet an excellence to attain.

[83] That cannot be imaginary, which has been already effected; nor unneceſſary, which adds new gratifications to a refined taſte. I have already mentioned, as models in the art of anecdotical compoſition, the illuſtrious names of Fontenelle, D'Alembert, and Du Bos. I have been compelled, on this occaſion, to cite the literature of a rival nation. Yet, if our writers of anecdotes could unite the va⯑rious learning of Dr. Warton to his fine taſte, his exact judgment, and his exquiſite art of introducing anecdote, we perhaps might have writers who were worthy of being claſſed in the rank of the Fontenelles.