"The proposals are issued; the subscriptions in the booksellers' shops
astonish; correspondents flock in; and, what will surprise you, the
timid proprietors of the 'Scots' Magazine' have come to the resolution
of dropping their work. You stare at all this, and so do I too."
Thus he flatters himself he is to annihilate his rival, without even
striking the first blow. The appearance of his first number is to be
the moment when their last is to come forth. Authors, like the
discoverers of mines, are the most sanguine creatures in the world:
Gilbert Stuart afterwards flattered himself Dr. Henry was lying at the
point of death from the scalping of his tomahawk pen; but of this
anon.
On the publication of the first number, in November, 1773, all is
exultation; and an account is facetiously expected that "a thousand
copies had emigrated from the Row and Fleet-street."
There is a serious composure in the letter of December, which seems to
be occasioned by the tempered answer of his London correspondent. The
work was more suited to the meridian of Edinburgh; and from causes
sufficiently obvious, its personality and causticity. Stuart, however,
assures his friend that "the second number you will find better than
the first, and the third better than the second."
The next letter is dated March 4, 1774, in which I find our author
still in good spirits:--
"The Magazine rises, and promises much, in this quarter. Our artillery
has silenced all opposition. The rogues of the 'uplifted hands'
decline the combat." These rogues are the clergy, and some others, who
had "uplifted hands" from the vituperative nature of their adversary;
for he tells us that, "now the clergy are silent, the town-council
have had the presumption to oppose us; and have threatened Creech (the
publisher in Edinburgh) with the terror of making him a constable for
his insolence. A pamphlet on the abuses of Heriot's Hospital,
including a direct proof of perjury in the provost, was the punishment
inflicted in return. And new papers are forging to chastise them, in
regard to the poors' rate, which is again started; the improper choice
of professors; and violent stretches of the impost. The _liberty of
the press_, in its fullest extent, is to be employed against them."
Such is the language of reform, and the spirit of a reformist! A
little private malignity thus ferments a good deal of public spirit;
but patriotism must be independent to be pure. If the "Edinburgh
Review" continues to succeed in its sale, as Stuart fancies,
Edinburgh itself may be in some danger. His perfect contempt of
his contemporaries is amusing:--
"Monboddo's second volume is published, and, with Kaimes, will appear
in our next; the former is a childish performance; the latter rather
better. We are to treat them with a good deal of freedom. I observe an
amazing falling off in the English Reviews. We beat them hollow. I
fancy they have no assistance but from the Dissenters,--a dull body of
men. The Monthly will not easily recover the death of Hawkesworth; and
I suspect that Langhorne has forsaken them; for I see no longer his
pen."
We are now hastening to the sudden and the moral catastrophe of our
tale. The thousand copies which had emigrated to London remained
there, little disturbed by public inquiry; and in Scotland, the
personal animosity against almost every literary character there,
which had inflamed the sale, became naturally the latent cause of its
extinction; for its life was but a feverish existence, and its florid
complexion carried with it the seeds of its dissolution. Stuart at
length quarrelled with his coadjutor, Smellie, for altering his
reviews. Smellie's prudential dexterity was such, that, in an article
designed to level Lord Kaimes with Lord Monboddo, the whole libel was
completely metamorphosed into a panegyric. They were involved in a
lawsuit about "a blasphemous paper." And now the enraged Zoilus
complains of "his hours of peevishness and dissatisfaction." He
acknowledges that "a circumstance had happened which had broke his
peace and ease altogether for some weeks." And now he resolves that
this great work shall quietly sink into a mere compilation from the
London periodical works. Such, then, is the progress of malignant
genius! The author, like him who invented the brazen bull of Phalaris,
is writhing in that machine of tortures he had contrived for others.
We now come to a very remarkable passage: it is the frenzied language
of disappointed wickedness.
"_17 June, 1774._
"It is an infinite disappointment to me that the Magazine does not
grow in London; I thought the soil had been richer. But it is my
constant fate to be disappointed in everything I attempt; I do not
think I ever had a wish that was gratified; and never dreaded an
event that did not come. With this felicity of fate, I wonder how
the devil I could turn projector. I am now sorry that I left
London; and the moment that I have money enough to carry me back
to it, I shall set off. _I mortally detest and abhor this place,
and everybody in it._ Never was there a city where there was so
much pretension to knowledge, and that had so little of it. The
solemn foppery, and the gross stupidity of the Scottish literati,
are perfectly insupportable. I shall drop my idea of a Scots
newspaper. Nothing will do in this country that has common sense
in it; only cant, hypocrisy, and superstition will flourish here.
_A curse on the country, and all the men, women, and children of
it!_"
Again.--"The publication is too good for the country. There are very
few men of taste or erudition on this side of the Tweed. Yet every
idiot one meets with lays claim to both. Yet the success of the
Magazine is in reality greater than we could expect, considering
that we have every clergyman in the kingdom to oppose it, and that
the magistracy of the place are every moment threatening its
destruction."
And, therefore, this recreant Scot anathematizes the Scottish people
for not applauding blasphemy, calumny, and every species of literary
criminality! Such are the monstrous passions that swell out the
poisonous breast of genius, deprived of every moral restraint; and
such was the demoniac irritability which prompted a wish in Collot
d'Herbois to set fire to the four quarters of the city of Lyons;
while, in his "tender mercies," the kennels of the streets were
running with the blood of its inhabitants--remembering still that the
Lyonese had, when he was a miserable actor, hissed him off the stage!
Stuart curses his country, and retreats to London. Fallen, but not
abject; repulsed, but not altered; degraded, but still haughty. No
change of place could operate any in his heart. He was born in
literary crime, and he perished in it. It was now "The English Review"
was instituted, with his idol Whitaker, the historian of Manchester,
and others. He says, "To Whitaker he assigns the palm of history in
preference to Hume and Robertson." I have heard that he considered
himself higher than Whitaker, and ranked himself with Montesquieu. He
negotiated for Whitaker and himself a Doctor of Laws' degree; and they
were now in the titular possession of all the fame which a dozen
pieces could bestow! In "The English Review" broke forth all the
genius of Stuart in an unnatural warfare of Scotchmen in London
against Scotchmen at Edinburgh. "The bitter herbs," which seasoned it
against Blair, Robertson, Gibbon, and the ablest authors of the age,
at first provoked the public appetite, which afterwards indignantly
rejected the palatable garbage.
But to proceed with our _Literary Conspiracy_, which was conducted by
Stuart with a pertinacity of invention perhaps not to be paralleled in
literary history. That the peace of mind of such an industrious author
as Dr. HENRY was for a considerable time destroyed; that the sale of a
work on which Henry had expended much of his fortune and his life was
stopped; and that, when covered with obloquy and ridicule, in despair
he left Edinburgh for London, still encountering the same hostility;
that all this was the work of the same hand perhaps was never even
known to its victim. The multiplied forms of this Proteus of the
Malevoli were still but one devil; fire or water, or a bull or a lion;
still it was the same Proteus, the same Stuart.
From the correspondence before me I am enabled to collect the
commencement and the end of this literary conspiracy, with all its
intermediate links. It thus commences:--
"_25 Nov. 1773._
"We have been attacked from different quarters, and Dr. Henry in
particular has given a long and a dull defence of his sermon. I
have replied to it with a degree of spirit altogether unknown in
this country. The reverend historian was perfectly astonished, and
has actually invited the Society for Propagating Christian
Knowledge to arm in his cause! I am about to be persecuted by the
whole clergy, and I am about to persecute them in my turn. They
are hot and zealous; I am cool and dispassionate, like a
determined sceptic; since I have entered the lists, I must fight;
I must gain the victory, or perish like a man."
"_13 Dec. 1773._
"David Hume wants to review Henry; but that task is so precious
that I will undertake it myself. Moses, were he to ask it as a
favour, should not have it; yea, not even the man after God's own
heart."
"_4 March, 1774._
"This month Henry is utterly demolished; his sale is stopped, many
of his copies are returned; and his old friends have forsaken him;
pray, in what state is he in London? Henry has delayed his London
journey; you cannot easily conceive how exceedingly he is
humbled.[97]
"I wish I could transport myself to London to review him for the
Monthly. A fire there, and in the Critical, would perfectly
annihilate him. Could you do nothing in the latter? To the former
I suppose David Hume has transcribed the criticism he intended for
us. It is precious, and would divert you. I keep a proof of it in
my cabinet for the amusement of friends. This great philosopher
begins to dote."[98]
Stuart prepares to assail Henry, on his arrival in London, from
various quarters--to lower the value of his history in the estimation
of the purchasers.
"_21 March, 1774._
"To-morrow morning Henry sets off for London, with immense hopes
of selling his history. I wish he had delayed till our last review
of him had reached your city. But I really suppose that he has
little probability of getting any gratuity. The trade are too
sharp to give precious gold for perfect nonsense. I wish sincerely
that I could enter Holborn the same hour with him. He should have
a repeated fire to combat with. I entreat that you may be so kind
as to let him feel some of your thunder. I shall never forget the
favour. If Whitaker is in London, he could give a blow. Paterson
will give him a knock. Strike by all means. The wretch will
tremble, grow pale, and return with a consciousness of his
debility. I entreat I may hear from you a day or two after you
have seen him. He will complain grievously of me to Strahan and
Rose. I shall send you a paper about him--an advertisement from
Parnassus, in the manner of Boccalini."
"_March, 1774._
"Dr. Henry has by this time reached you. I think you ought to pay
your respects to him in the _Morning Chronicle_. If you would only
transcribe his jests, it would make him perfectly ridiculous. See,
for example, what he says of St. Dunstan. A word to the wise."
"_March 27, 1774._
"I have a thousand thanks to give you for your insertion of the
paper in the London _Chronicle_, and for the part you propose to
act in regard to Henry. I could wish that you knew for certain his
being in London before you strike the first blow. An inquiry at
Cadell's will give this. When you have an enemy to attack, I shall
in return give my best assistance, and aim at him a mortal blow,
and rush forward to his overthrow, though the flames of hell
should start up to oppose me.
"It pleases me, beyond what I can express, that Whitaker has an
equal contempt for Henry. The idiot threatened, when he left
Edinburgh, that he would find a method to manage the Reviews, and
that he would oppose their panegyric to our censure. Hume has
behaved ill in the affair, and I am preparing to chastise him.
You may expect a series of papers in the Magazine, pointing out a
multitude of his errors, and ascertaining his ignorance of English
history. It was too much for my temper to be assailed both by
infidels and believers. My pride could not submit to it. I shall
act in my defence with a spirit which it seems they have not
expected."
"_11 April, 1774._
"I received with infinite pleasure the annunciation of the great
man into the capital. It is forcible and excellent; and you have
my best thanks for it. You improve amazingly. The poor creature
will be stupified with amazement. Inclosed is a paper for him.
Boccalini will follow. I shall fall upon a method to let David
know Henry's transaction about his review. It is mean to the last
degree. But what could one expect from the most ignorant and the
most contemptible man alive? Do you ever see Macfarlane? He owes
me a favour for his history of George III., and would give a fire
for the packet. The idiot is to be Moderator for the ensuing
Assembly. It shall not, however, be without opposition.
"Would the paragraph about him from the inclosed leaf of the
'Edinburgh Review' be any disgrace to the _Morning Chronicle_?"
"_20th May, 1774._
"Boccalini I thought of transmitting, when the reverend historian,
for whose use it was intended, made his appearance at Edinburgh.
But it will not be lost. He shall most certainly see it. David's
critique was most acceptable. It is a curious specimen in one view
of insolent vanity, and in another of contemptible meanness. The
old historian begins to dote, and the new one was never out of
dotage."
"_3 April, 1775._
"I see every day that what is written to a man's disparagement is
never forgot nor forgiven. Poor Henry is on the point of death,
and his friends declare that I have killed him. I received the
information as a compliment, and begged they would not do me so
much honour."
But Henry and his history long survived Stuart and his _critiques_;
and Robertson, Blair, and Kaimes, with others he assailed, have all
taken their due ranks in public esteem. What niche does Stuart occupy?
His historical works possess the show, without the solidity, of
research; hardy paradoxes, and an artificial style of momentary
brilliancy, are none of the lasting materials of history. This shadow
of "Montesquieu," for he conceived him only to be his fit rival,
derived the last consolations of life from an obscure corner of a
Burton ale-house--there, in rival potations, with two or three other
disappointed authors, they regaled themselves on ale they could not
always pay for, and recorded their own literary celebrity, which had
never taken place. Some time before his death, his asperity was almost
softened by melancholy; with a broken spirit, he reviewed himself; a
victim to that unrighteous ambition which sought to build up its
greatness with the ruins of his fellow-countrymen; prematurely wasting
talents which might have been directed to literary eminence. And
Gilbert Stuart died as he had lived, a victim to intemperance,
physical and moral!