Strawberry Hill, _July_ 12, 1788.
Won't you repent having opened the correspondence, my dear Madam, when
you find my letters come so thick upon you? In this instance, however, I
am only to blame in part, for being too ready to take advice, for the
sole reason for which advice ever is taken,--because it fell in with my
inclination.
You said in your last that you feared you took up time of mine to the
prejudice of the public; implying, I imagine, that I might employ it in
composing. Waving both your compliment and my own vanity, I will speak
very seriously to you on that subject, and with exact truth. My simple
writings have had better fortune than they had any reason to expect; and
I fairly believe, in a great degree, because gentlemen-writers, who do
not write for interest, are treated with some civility if they do not
write absolute nonsense. I think so, because I have not unfrequently
known much better works than mine much more neglected, if the name,
fortune, and situation of the authors were below mine. I wrote early
from youth, spirits, and vanity; and from both the last when the first
no longer existed. I now shudder when I reflect on my own boldness; and
with mortification, when I compare my own writings with those of any
great authors. This is so true, that I question whether it would be
possible for me to summon up courage to publish anything I have written,
if I could recall time past, and should yet think as I think at present.
So much for what is over and out of my power. As to writing now, I have
totally forsworn the profession, for two solid reasons. One I have
already told you; and it is, that I know my own writings are trifling
and of no depth. The other is, that, light and futile as they were, I am
sensible they are better than I could compose now. I am aware of the
decay of the middling parts I had, and others may be still more sensible
of it. How do I know but I am superannuated? nobody will be so coarse as
to tell me so; but if I published dotage, all the world would tell me
so. And who but runs that risk who is an author after seventy? What
happened to the greatest author of this age, and who certainly retained
a very considerable portion of his abilities for ten years after my
age?[1] Voltaire, at eighty-four, I think, went to Paris to receive the
incense, in person, of his countrymen, and to be witness of their
admiration of a tragedy he had written, at that Methusalem age. Incense
he did receive till it choked him; and, at the exhibition of his play,
he was actually crowned with laurel in the box where he sat. But what
became of his poor play? It died as soon as he did--was buried with him;
and no mortal, I dare to say, has ever read a line of it since, it was
so bad.
[Footnote 1: Voltaire had for several years been in disgrace at Court,
and had been living in Switzerland; but in 1778 he returned to Paris to
superintend the performance of a new tragedy, "Irene." He was, however,
greatly mortified at the refusal of Marie Antoinette to allow him to be
presented to her, and was but partly comforted by the enthusiasm of the
audience at the theatre, who crowned him on the stage after the
performance. Mme. du Deffand, who, in a letter to Walpole a few days
before, had said that if the tragedy did not succeed it would kill him,
says in a subsequent letter that its success had been very
moderate--that the enthusiasm of the audience had been for Voltaire
himself; and at all events her prophecy was fulfilled, for he died a few
weeks afterwards.]
As I am neither by a thousandth part so great, nor a quarter so little,
I will herewith send you a fragment that an accidental _rencontre_ set
me upon writing, and which I find so flat, that I would not finish it.
Don't believe that I am either begging praise by the stale artifice of
hoping to be contradicted; or that I think there is any occasion to make
you discover my caducity. No; but the fragment contains a
curiosity--English verses written by a French Prince[1] of the Blood,
and which at first I had a mind to add to my "Royal and Noble Authors;"
but as he was not a royal author of ours, and as I could not please
myself with an account of him, I shall revert to my old resolution of
not exposing my pen's grey hairs.
[Footnote 1: He was the Duc d'Orléans, who was taken prisoner by Henry
V. at Agincourt, and was detained in England for twenty-five years. The
verses are published in "Walpole's Works," i. 564.]
Of one passage I must take notice; it is a little indirect sneer at our
crowd of authoresses. My choosing to send this to _you_, is a proof that
I think you an author, that is, a classic. But, in truth, I am
nauseated by the Madams Piozzi, &c., and the host of novel-writers in
petticoats, who think they imitate what is inimitable, "Evelina" and
"Cecilia."[1] Your candour, I know, will not agree with me, when I tell
you I am not at all charmed with Miss Seward[2] and Mr. Hayley[3] piping
to one another: but _you_ I exhort, and would encourage to write; and
flatter myself you will never be royally gagged and promoted to fold
muslins, as has been lately wittily said on Miss Burney, in the List of
five hundred living authors. _Your_ writings promote virtues; and their
increasing editions prove their worth and utility. If you question my
sincerity, can you doubt my admiring you, when you have gratified _my_
self-love so amply in your "Bas Bleu"? Still, as much as I love your
writings, I respect yet more your heart and your goodness. You are so
good that I believe you would go to heaven, even though there were no
Sunday, and only six _working_ days in the week. Adieu, my best Madam!
[Footnote 1: "Evelina" and "Cecilia" are novels by Miss Burney,
afterwards Mme. d'Arblay. The former was extravagantly praised by
Johnson and the Literary Club, and is probably a favourable specimen of
the style of the conversation of the day.]
[Footnote 2: Miss Seward was the authoress of that most ingenious riddle
on the letter _H_, and also of some volumes of poetry.]
[Footnote 3: Mr. Hayley was the author of several works in prose and
verse; in the latter, of a poem called "The Triumphs of Temper," and
entitled to the name, according to Byron, since "at least they triumphed
over his" ("English Bards and Scotch Reviewers").]
_DIVISIONS IN THE ROYAL FAMILY--THE REGENCY--THE IRISH PARLIAMENT._