a part in the composition of a man of letters, you will tell them that
this is the very foible you most lament, and most wish them to correct:
that it exposes them to much censure and many other inconveniencies; that
this frankness of disposition makes them bestow their praises on those
whom the world has no such esteem for, or whom it would rather see left
in obscurity and oblivion; that they often disgust their betters by this
proceeding, who have their reasons for desiring that a cloud may remain
on the characters of certain obnoxious and dangerous writers; that by
such warm and unmanaged commendations they become partners, as it were,
of their ill deserts; that they even make themselves answerable for their
future conduct; which is a matter of so very nice a consideration, that
the great master of life, though he had not the virtue always to act
up to his own maxim, delivers it for a precept of special use in the
commerce of the world,
QUALEM COMMENDES ETIAM ATQUE ETIAM ADSPICE.
For it signifies nothing in the case before us, whether the
recommendation be to a patron or the public.
For all these reasons you will assure them that this ill habit of
speaking their mind on all occasions, just as nature and blind friendship
dictate, is that which more than any thing else exposes them to the
contempt of knowing and considerate men.
_Lastly_, with regard to that other frivolous plea taken from the
_malignity of mankind_ and even those of their own family and profession,
you will convince them that this is totally a mistake, that the world
is ready enough to take notice of superior eminence in letters, that
it is even apt to grow extravagant in its admiration, and that this
humour of the public is itself a reason for that reserve with which their
friends, if they truly merit that name, ought to conduct themselves
towards them: that this splendour of reputation, which is so generally
the consequence of distinguished learning, requires to be allayed and
softened by the discrete management of those who wish them well, lest it
not only grow offensive to weak eyes, but dazzle their own with too fond
an imagination of their own importance, and so relax the ardour of their
pursuits, or betray them into some unseemly ostentation of their just
merits. You will farther suggest, that great atchievements in letters
are sufficiently recompenced by the silent complacency of self-esteem
and of a good conscience; while lesser services demand to be brought out
and magnified to public eye, for the due encouragement and consolation
of those who would otherwise have but small reason to be satisfied with
themselves. You might even observe, that silence itself is often a full
acknowledgment of superior desert, especially when personal obligations,
as well as other reasons, might provoke them to break through it. In such
cases it is to be understood, that, if a friend be sparing of his good
word, it is in violence to his inclination, and that nothing but the
tender apprehension of pushing an acknowledged merit too far, withholds
him from giving a public testimony to it. But, in conclusion, you will
not omit to set them right with regard to one material mistake in this
matter; that whereas they complain of the superior estimation in which
the professors of verbal criticism are held amongst us, whom with a
strange malignity they affect to represent as the very lowest retainers
to science, you, and all true scholars, on the other hand, maintain that
the _study_ of words is the most useful and creditable of all others; and
that this genuine class of learned men have reason to pride themselves in
their objected, but truly glorious character of VERBAL CRITICS.
And now, Sir, having seen how little can be said in justification of that
offensive custom which the learned have somehow taken up, of directly
applauding one another, I come to the more immediate purpose of this
address, which was to shew how singularly happy you have been in avoiding
this great vice, and to take occasion from the example you have now set
us to recommend the contrary virtue to the imitation of others.
I am sensible there are some difficulties to be encountered at setting
out. A generous mind will probably feel some reluctance, at first, to the
scheme of suppressing his natural feelings, and of withholding from his
friend that just tribute of praise which many others perhaps are but too
willing should be withheld from him. But all scruples of this sort will
be got over when the full merit of your example hath been considered; I
mean, when the inducements you had to give into the common weakness on
this occasion come to be fairly drawn out; by which it will be clearly
seen that you have the glory of setting a precedent of the most heroic
magnanimity and self-denial, and that nothing can possibly be urged in
the _case_ of any other, which you have not triumphantly gotten the
better of in your own.
I observe it to your honour, Sir, you have ventured on the same ground
in this famous Dissertation, which hath been trodden by the most noted,
at least, of our present writers. But this is not enough. It will be
of moment to consider a little more particularly the _character_ of
the person whom you chuse to follow, or rather nobly emulate, in this
route. And lest you should think I have any design to lessen the merit
of your conduct towards him by giving it in my cool way, take it from
one of those _warm_ friends who never balk their humour in this sort of
commendations. Upon asking him what he thought of the learned person’s
character, and telling him the use I might perhaps make of his opinion in
this address to you, he began in a very solemn way.
“The author of the D. L.” says he, “is a writer whose genius and learning
have so far subdued envy itself (though it never rose fiercer against any
man, or in more various and grotesque shapes), that every man of sense
now esteems him the ornament, and every good man the blessing, of these
times.”
Hold, said I, my good friend, I did not mean to put your eloquence to
the stretch for this panegyric on his _intellectual_ endowments, which
I am very ready to take upon trust, and, to say the truth, have never
heard violently run down by any but very prejudiced or very dull men. His
_moral_ qualities are those I am most concerned for.
“His _moral_,” resumed he hastily, “shine forth as strongly from all
his _writings_ as the other, and are those which I have ever reverenced
most. Of these, his love of letters and of virtue, his veneration of
great and good men, his delicacy of honour in not assuming to himself, or
depressing, the merit of others, his readiness to give their due to all
men of real desert whose principles he opposes, even to the fastidious,
scoffing Lord SHAFTESBURY and the licentious BAYLE, but above all, his
zeal for religion and for truth, these are qualities which, as often as
I look into his volumes, attract my admiration and esteem. Nor is this
enumeration, though it be far from complete, made at random. I could
illustrate each of these virtues by various instances, taken from his
works, were it not that the person you mean to address is more conversant
in them, and more ready, I may presume, to do him justice on any fitting
occasion than myself. The liberty indeed he takes of dissenting from many
great names is considerable, as well as of speaking his free thoughts of
the writers for whom he hath no esteem. But the _one_ he doth with that
respect and deference, and the _other_ with that reason and justice, and
_both_ with that ingenuous openness and candour, the characteristics of a
truly great mind, that they, whom he opposes, cannot be angry, and they
whom he censures are not misused. I mention this the rather on account of
the clamour which has so frequently been raised against the freedom and
severity of his pen. But there is no mystery in the case. No dead writer
is so bad but he has some advocates, and no living one so contemptible
but he has some friends. And the misfortune is, that, while the present
generation is too much prejudiced to do him right, posterity, to whom
the appeal of course lies, are not likely to have it in their power to
re-judge the cause: the names and writings, he most undervalues, being
such as are hastening, it seems, to that oblivion which is prepared for
such things.
“These,” continued he, “are some of the obvious qualities of the WRITER;
and for the personal virtues of the MAN—But here I may well refer you
to Dr. JORTIN himself, who will take a pleasure to assure you, that his
private character is not less respectable than his public; or, rather,
if the one demands our veneration, that the other must secure our love.
And, yet, why rest the credit of ONE, when ALL of his acquaintance agree
in this, that he is the easiest in his conversation, the frankest and
most communicative, the readiest to do all good offices, in short the
friendliest and most generous of men.”
Thus far our zealous friend. And, though I know how much you agree with
him in your sentiments, I dare say you cannot but smile at so egregious
a specimen of the high _complimentary manner_. But, though one is not
to expect an encomiast of this class will be very sensible of any
defects in the person he celebrates, yet it cannot be disowned that this
magnified man hath his foibles as well as another. I will be so fair as
to enumerate some of them.
As he is conscious of _intending_ well, and even greatly, in his learned
labours, he is rather disposed to think himself injured by malicious
slanders and gross misrepresentations. And then, as he hath abundantly
too much wit, especially for a great divine, he is apt to say such things
as, though dull men do not well comprehend, they see reason enough to
take offence at. Besides, he doth not sufficiently consult his ease or
his interest by the observance of those forms and practices which are in
use amongst the prudent part of his own order. This, no doubt, begets a
reasonable disgust. And even his friends, I observe, can hardly restrain
their censure of so great a singularity. “He is so much in his study,
they say, that he hardly allows himself time to make his appearance at
a levee. Not considering that _illud unum ad laudem cum labore directum
iter qui probaverunt prope jam soli in_ SCHOLIS _sunt relicti_.” These
infirmities, it must be owned, are very notorious in him; to which it
might be added, that he is very indiscreet, sometimes, in the topics and
turn of his conversation. His zeal for his FRIEND is so immoderate, that
he takes fire even at the most distant reflection he hears cast upon him.
And I doubt no consideration could withhold him from contradicting any
man, let his quality and station be what it would, that should hazard a
joke or an argument, in his company, against RELIGION.
I thought it but just to take notice of these weaknesses; and there may,
perhaps, be some others, which I do not now recollect. Yet, on the whole,
I will not deny that he may fairly pass for an able, a friendly, and even
amiable man.
This person then, such as he is, such, at least, as the zealots represent
and you esteem him, you have the pleasure to call your FRIEND. Report
says, too, that he has more than a common right to this _title_: that
he has won it by many real services done to yourself. How doth the
consciousness of all this fire you! and what pains do I see you take to
restrain that impatient gratitude, which would relieve itself by breaking
forth in the praises of such a friend!
And yet—in spite of all these incitements from _esteem_, from
_friendship_, and from _gratitude_, which might prompt you to some
extravagance of commendation, such is the command you have of yourself,
and so nicely do you understand what belongs to this intercourse of
learned friends, that, in the instance before us, you do not, I think,
appear to have exceeded the modest proportion even of a temperate and
chaste praise.
I assure you, Sir, I am so charmed with the beauty of this conduct, that,
though it may give your modesty some pain, I cannot help uniting the
several parts of it, and presenting the entire image to you in one piece.
I meddle not with the argument of your elaborate dissertation. It is
enough that your readers know it to be the same with that of another
famous one in the D. L. They will know, then, that, among the various
parts of that work, none was so likely as this to extort your applause.
For it is universally, I suppose, agreed that, for a point in classical
criticism, there is not the man living who hath a keener relish for it
than yourself. And the general opinion is, that your honoured friend hath
a sort of talent for this kind of writing. Some persons, I know, have
talked at a strange rate. One or two I once met with were for setting
him much above the modern, and on a level, at least, with the best of
the old, critics. But this was going too far, as may appear to any that
hath but attentively read and understood what the judicious Mr. UPTON and
the learned Mr. EDWARDS have, in their various books and pamphlets, well
and solidly, and with great delight to many discerning persons, written
on this subject. Yet still I must needs think him considerably above
MINELLIUS and FARNABY, and almost equal to old SERVIUS himself, except
that, perhaps, one doth not find in him the singular _ingenuity_[118] you
admire in the last of these critics.
But be this as it will, it seems pretty well agreed, that the learned
person, though so great a divine, is a very competent judge, and no mean
proficient in classical criticism. There are many specimens of his
talents in this way dispersed through the large and miscellaneous work of
the D. L. But the greatest effort of his genius, they say, is seen in the
explanation of the Sixth Book of the Ænëis. And, with all its defects,
I can easily perceive you were so struck with it, that it was with
the utmost reluctance you found yourself obliged, by the regard which
every honest critic owes to truth, and by the superior delicacy of your
purpose, to censure and expose it.
Another man, I can easily imagine, would have said to himself before
he had entered on this task, “This fine commentary, which sets the
most finished part of the Ænëis, and indeed the whole poem, in so new
and so advantageous a light, though not an essential in it, is yet a
considerable ornament of a justly admired work. The author, too, is my
particular friend; a man, the farthest of all others from any disposition
to lessen the reputation of those he loves. The subject hath been well
nigh exhausted by him; and the remarks I have to offer on his scheme are
not, in truth, of that consequence as to make it a point of duty for
me to lay aside the usual regards of friendship on their account: and,
though HE hath greatness of mind enough not to resent this liberty, his
impatient and ill-judging friends will be likely to take offence at it.
The public itself, as little biassed as it seems to be in his favour, may
be even scandalized at an attempt of this nature, to which no important
interest of religion or learning seem to oblige me.”
After this manner, I say, would a common man have been apt to reason with
himself. But you, Sir, understand the _rights_ of literary freedom, and
the _offices_ of sacred friendship, at another rate. The _one_ authorize
us to deliver our sentiments on any point of literature without reserve.
And the _other_ will not suffer you to dishonour the man you love, or
require you to sully the purity of your own virtue, by a vicious and
vulgar complaisance.
Or, to give the account of the whole matter in your own memorable words:
The Sixth Book of the Ænëis, you observe, though the most finished part
of the twelve, is certainly obscure. “Here then is a field open for
criticism, and all of us, who attempt to explain and illustrate Virgil,
have reason to HOPE that we may make some _discoveries_, and to FEAR
that we may fall into some _mistakes_; and this should induce us to
conjecture with _freedom_, to propose with _diffidence_, and to dissent
with _civility_. Ἀγαθὴ δ’ ἔρις ἥδε βροτοῖσι, quoth old Hesiod[119].”
Which shall I most admire, the dignity, the candour, or the prudence,
that shine forth in this curious paragraph, which stands as a sort of
preface to the refutation, as no doubt you designed it, of your friend’s
work? “_You have reason to hope that_, after the unsuccessful efforts
of the author of the D. L., _you may make some discoveries_.” In this
declaration some may esteem you too sanguine. But I see nothing in it
but a confidence very becoming a man of your talent at a _discovery_,
and of your importance in the literary world. You add, indeed, as it
were to temper this boldness, that “_you have reason to fear too that
you may fall into some mistakes_.” This was rather too modest; only it
would serve, at the same time, to intimate to your friend what he had to
expect from the following detection of his errors. But you lead us to the
consequence of these principles. “_They should induce us_, you say ”TO
CONJECTURE WITH FREEDOM.” Doubtless. And the dignity of your character
is seen in taking it. For, shall the authority or friendship of any man
stand in the way of my conjectures?
——scilicet, ut non
Sit mihi prima fides; et verè quod placet, ut non
Acriter elatrem!
—“TO PROPOSE WITH DIFFIDENCE.” Certainly very _prudent_, especially for
one sort of _free-conjecturers_; and, by the way, no bad hint to the
person you glance at, whose vice it is thought to be, above that of most
other writers, never to trouble himself with composing a book on any
question, of whose truth he is not previously and firmly convinced——“AND
TO DISSENT WITH CIVILITY.” A _candid_ insinuation, which amounts to this,
“That, when a writer hath done his best to shew his learning or his wit,
the man at whose expence it is, especially if he be a friend, is, in
consideration of such services, not to take it amiss.”
I have been the freer to open the meaning of this introductory paragraph,
because it lets us into the spirit with which you mean to carry yourself
in this learned contention. For a _contention_ it is to be, and to good
purpose too, if old Hesiod be any authority. Ἀγαθὴ δ’ ἔρις ἥδε βροτοῖσι,
quoth old Hesiod. Though to make the application quite pat the maxim
should have run thus, Ἀγαθὴ δ’ ἔρις ἥδε φιλοῖσι, which I do not find in
old Hesiod.
However the reason of the thing extends to both. And as _friends_ after
all are but _men_, and sometimes none of the best neither, what need for
standing on this distinction?
Yet still the question returns, “Why so cool in the entrance of this
friendly debate? Where had been the hurt of a little amicable parlying
before daggers-drawing? If a man, in the true spirit of ancient chivalry,
will needs break a lance with his friend, he might give him good words
at least and shake hands with him before the onset. Something of this
sort might have been expected, were it only to save the reputation of
_dissenting with civility_.”
Now in answer to this question, which comes indeed to the point, and
which I hear asked in all companies, I reply with much confidence,
_first_, that the very foundation of it is laid in certain high fantastic
notions about the duties of friendship, and in that vicious habit of
civility that hath so long been prevalent among learned friends; both
which props and pillars of the cause I may presume with great modesty to
have entirely overturned.
But _secondly_ and chiefly I say that the whole is an arrant
misrepresentation; for that you have indeed proceeded in this affair,
with all that civility and even friendliness that could in reason be
expected from you: I mean so far as the sobriety and _Retenuë_, as the
French term it (it is plain the virtue hath not been very common amongst
us from our having no name to call it by) of a true critical friendship
will allow.
Now there are several ways by which a writer’s civility to his friend may
appear without giving into the formal way of _address_: just as there are
several ways of expressing his devotion to his patron, without observing
the ordinary forms of _dedication_; of which, to note it by the way,
the latest and best instances I have met with, are, “A certain thing
prefatory to a learned work, entitled, _The Elements of Civil Law_,” and
“Those curious two little paragraphs prefixed to _The Six Dissertations
on different Subjects_.”
You see the delicacy of the learned is improving in our days in more
respects than one. And take my word for it, you have contributed your
share to this good work. For as you began, so you conclude your volume
with a master stroke of address, which will deserve the acknowledgment
and imitation of all your brethren, as I now proceed distinctly and with
great exactness of method to unfold.
THE FIRST way of distinguishing a learned friend, without incurring the
guilt of downright compliment, is by _writing on the same subject with
him_. This is an obvious method of paying one’s court to a great writer.
For it is in effect telling him that the public attention is raised
to the argument he hath been debating; and that his credit hath even
brought it into such vogue that any prate on the same subject is sure
of a favourable reception. This I can readily suppose to have been your
first motive for engaging in this controversy. And the practice is very
frequent. So when a certain edition of SHAKESPEAR appeared, though it had
been but the amusement of the learned editor, every body went to work, in
good earnest, on the great poet, and the public was presently over-run
with editions and criticisms and illustrations of him. Thus too it fared
with the several subjects treated in the D. L. Few were competent judges
of the main argument, or disposed to give it a candid interpretation.
But every smatterer had something to say to this or that occasional
disquisition. Thus SYKES, and STEBBING grew immortal, and, as the poet
says truly, _in their own despite_. And what but some faint glimmering
of this _bright reversion_, which we will charitably hope may be still
kept in reserve for them, could put it into the heads of such men as
WORTHINGTON, H. G. C.[120] and PETERS, to turn critics and commentators
on the book of JOB?
SECONDLY, Though I acknowledge the full merit of this way of treating
a learned friend, I am rather more taken with another, which is that
_of writing against him_. For this demonstrates the esteem one hath of
the author’s work, not only as it may seem to imply a little generous
rivalry or indeed envy, from which infirmity a truly learned spirit is
seldom quite free, but as it shews the answerer thought it worth _writing
against_; which, let me assure you, is no vulgar compliment; as many
living writers can testify, who to this hour are sadly lamenting that
their ill fortune hath never permitted them to rise to this distinction.
Now, in this view of the matter, I must take leave to think that
you have done a very substantial honour to the author of the famous
_Discourse on the_ VIth _book of Virgil_, in levelling so long and so
elaborate a disputation against him. And HE, of all other men, ought to
be of my mind, who to my certain knowledge hath never done thus much
for one in a hundred of those learned persons whose principal end in
commencing writers against him was to provoke him to this civility.