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Exploring the Variety of Random
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Anecdotes about
Authors, and Artists
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANECDOTES

ABOUT AUTHORS, AND ARTISTS ***
 Contents: Part I., Part II.

ANECDOTES
ABOUT

AUTHORS,
AND

A R T I S T S.
BY
JOHN TIMBS.

London:
DIPROSE & BATEMAN, SHEFFIELD STREET,
Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

LONDON:
DIPROSE, BATEMAN AND CO., PRINTERS,
LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS.
 ANECDOTES

ABOUT

BOOKS

AND

AUTHORS.

Part I.

NOTE.
THIS collection of anecdotes, illustrative sketches, and memorabilia
generally, relating to the ever fresh and interesting subject of Books and
Authors, is not presented as complete, nor even as containing all the
choice material of its kind. The field from which one may gather is so wide
and fertile, that any collection warranting such a claim would far exceed the
compass of many volumes, much less of this little book. It has been sought
to offer, in an acceptable and convenient form, some of the more
remarkable or interesting literary facts or incidents with which one
individual, in a somewhat extended reading, has been struck; some of the
passages which he has admired; some of the anecdotes and jests that have
amused him and may amuse others; some of the reminiscences that it has
most pleased him to dwell upon. For no very great portion of the contents of
this volume, is the claim to originality of subject-matter advanced. The
collection, however, is submitted with some confidence that it may be found
as interesting, as accurate, and as much guided by good taste, as it has been
endeavoured to make it.
 BOOKS AND AUTHORS.
CURIOUS FACTS AND CHARACTERISTIC SKETCHES.

T H E F I N D I N G O F J O H N E V E LY N ’ S M S . D I A RY AT
WOTTON.
THE MS. Diary, or “Kalendarium,” of the celebrated John Evelyn lay among
the family papers at Wotton, in Surrey, from the period of his death, in
1706, until their rare interest and value were discovered in the following
singular manner.
The library at Wotton is rich in curious books, with notes in John
Evelyn’s handwriting, as well as papers on various subjects, and transcripts
of letters by the philosopher, who appears never to have employed an
amanuensis. The arrangement of these treasures was, many years since,
entrusted to the late Mr. Upcott, of the London Institution, who made a
complete catalogue of the collection.
One afternoon, as Lady Evelyn and a female companion were seated in
one of the fine old apartments of Wotton, making feather tippets, her
ladyship pleasantly observed to Mr. Upcott, “You may think this feather-
work a strange way of passing time: it is, however, my hobby; and I dare
say you, too, Mr. Upcott, have your hobby.” The librarian replied that his
favourite pursuit was the collection of the autographs of eminent persons.
Lady Evelyn remarked, that in all probability the MSS. of “Sylva” Evelyn
would afford Mr. Upcott some amusement. His reply may be well imagined.
The bell was rung, and a servant desired to bring the papers from a lumber-
room of the old mansion; and from one of the baskets so produced was
brought to light the manuscript Diary of John Evelyn—one of the most
finished specimens of autobiography in the whole compass of English
literature.
The publication of the Diary, with a selection of familiar letters, and
private correspondence, was entrusted to Mr. William Bray, F.S.A.; and the
last sheets of the MS., with a dedication to Lady Evelyn, were actually in
the hands of the printer at the hour of her death. The work appeared in 1818;
and a volume of Miscellaneous Papers, by Evelyn, was subsequently
published, under Mr. Upcott’s editorial superintendence.
Wotton House, though situate in the angle of two valleys, is actually on
part of Leith Hill, the rise from thence being very gradual. Evelyn’s “Diary”
contains a pen-and-ink sketch of the mansion as it appeared in 1653.

FA M I L I E S O F L I T E R A RY M E N .
A Quarterly Reviewer, in discussing an objection to the Copyright Bill
of Mr. Sergeant Talfourd, which was taken by Sir Edward Sugden, gives
some curious particulars of the progeny of literary men. “We are not,” says
the writer, “going to speculate about the causes of the fact; but a fact it is,
that men distinguished for extraordinary intellectual power of any sort
rarely leave more than a very brief line of progeny behind them. Men of
genius have scarcely ever done so; men of imaginative genius, we might
say, almost never. With the one exception of the noble Surrey, we cannot, at
this moment, point out a representative in the male line, even so far down as
the third generation, of any English poet; and we believe the case is the
same in France. The blood of beings of that order can seldom be traced far
down, even in the female line. With the exception of Surrey and Spenser,
we are not aware of any great English author of at all remote date, from
whose body any living person claims to be descended. There is no real
English poet prior to the middle of the eighteenth century; and we believe
no great author of any sort, except Clarendon and Shaftesbury, of whose
blood we have any inheritance amongst us. Chaucer’s only son died
childless; Shakspeare’s line expired in his daughter’s only daughter. None
of the other dramatists of that age left any progeny; nor Raleigh, nor Bacon,
nor Cowley, nor Butler. The grand-daughter of Milton was the last of his
blood. Newton, Locke, Pope, Swift, Arbuthnot, Hume, Gibbon, Cowper,
Gray, Walpole, Cavendish (and we might greatly extend the list), never
married. Neither Bolingbroke, nor Addison, nor Warburton, nor Johnson,
nor Burke, transmitted their blood. One of the arguments against a
perpetuity in literary property is, that it would be founding another noblesse.
Neither jealous aristocracy nor envious Jacobinism need be under such
alarm. When a human race has produced its ‘bright, consummate flower’ in
this kind, it seems commonly to be near its end.”
 THE BLUE-STOCKING CLUB.
Towards the close of the last century, there met at Mrs. Montague’s a
literary assembly, called “The Blue-Stocking Club,” in consequence of one
of the most admired of the members, Mr. Benjamin Stillingfleet, always
wearing blue stockings. The appellation soon became general as a name for
pedantic or ridiculous literary ladies. Hannah More wrote a volume in verse,
entitled The Bas Bleu: or Conversation. It proceeds on the mistake of a
foreigner, who, hearing of the Blue-Stocking Club, translated it literally Bas
Bleu. Johnson styled this poem “a great performance.” The following
couplets have been quoted, and remembered, as terse and pointed:—

“In men this blunder still you find,

All think their little set mankind.”

“Small habits well pursued betimes,

May reach the dignity of crimes.”

DR. JOHNSON AND HANNAH MORE.

When Hannah More came to London in 1773, or 1774, she was
domesticated with Garrick, and was received with favour by Johnson,
Reynolds, and Burke. Her sister has thus described her first interview with
Johnson:—
“We have paid another visit to Miss Reynolds; she had sent to engage Dr.
Percy, (‘Percy’s Collection,’ now you know him), quite a sprightly modern,
instead of a rusty antique, as I expected: he was no sooner gone than the
most amiable and obliging of women, Miss Reynolds, ordered the coach to
take us to Dr. Johnson’s very own house: yes, Abyssinian Johnson!
Dictionary Johnson! Ramblers, Idlers, and Irene Johnson! Can you picture
to yourselves the palpitation of our hearts as we approached his mansion?
The conversation turned upon a new work of his just going to the press (the
‘Tour to the Hebrides’), and his old friend Richardson. Mrs. Williams, the
blind poet, who lives with him, was introduced to us. She is engaging in her
manners, her conversation lively and entertaining. Miss Reynolds told the
Doctor of all our rapturous exclamations on the road. He shook his
scientific head at Hannah, and said she was ‘a silly thing.’ When our visit
was ended, he called for his hat, as it rained, to attend us down a very long
entry to our coach, and not Rasselas could have acquitted himself more en
cavalier. I forgot to mention, that not finding Johnson in his little parlour
when we came in, Hannah seated herself in his great chair hoping to catch a
little ray of his genius: when he heard it, he laughed heartily, and told her it
was a chair on which he never sat. He said it reminded him of Boswell and
himself when they stopped a night, as they imagined, where the weird
sisters appeared to Macbeth. The idea so worked on their enthusiasm, that it
quite deprived them of rest. However, they learned the next morning, to
their mortification, that they had been deceived, and were quite in another
part of the country.”

M I S S M I T F O R D ’ S FA R E W E L L T O T H R E E M I L E
CROSS.
When Miss Mitford left her rustic cottage at Three Mile Cross, and
removed to Reading, (the Belford Regis of her novel), she penned the
following beautiful picture of its homely joys:—
“Farewell, then, my beloved village! the long, straggling street, gay and
bright on this sunny, windy April morning, full of all implements of dirt and
mire, men, women, children, cows, horses, wagons, carts, pigs, dogs, geese,
and chickens—busy, merry, stirring little world, farewell! Farewell to the
winding, up-hill road, with its clouds of dust, as horsemen and carriages
ascend the gentle eminence, its borders of turf, and its primrosy hedges!
Farewell to the breezy common, with its islands of cottages and cottage-
gardens; its oaken avenues, populous with rooks; its clear waters fringed
with gorse, where lambs are straying; its cricket-ground where children
already linger, anticipating their summer revelry; its pretty boundary of
field and woodland, and distant farms; and latest and best of its ornaments,
the dear and pleasant mansion where dwelt the neighbours, the friends of
friends; farewell to ye all! Ye will easily dispense with me, but what I shall
do without you, I cannot imagine. Mine own dear village, farewell!”

S M O L L E T T ’ S “ H U G H S T R A P. ”
In the year 1809 was interred, in the churchyard of St. Martin’s-in-the
Fields, the body of one Hew Hewson, who died at the age of 85. He was the
original of Hugh Strap, in Smollett’s Roderick Random. Upwards of forty
years he kept a hair-dresser’s shop in St. Martin’s parish; the walls were
hung round with Latin quotations, and he would frequently point out to his
customers and acquaintances the several scenes in Roderick Random
pertaining to himself, which had their origin, not in Smollett’s inventive
fancy, but in truth and reality. The meeting in a barber’s shop at Newcastle-
upon-Tyne, the subsequent mistake at the inn, their arrival together in
London, and the assistance they experienced from Strap’s friend, are all
facts. The barber left behind an annotated copy of Roderick Random,
showing how far we are indebted to the genius of the author, and to what
extent the incidents are founded in reality.

COLLINS’S POEMS.
Mr. John Ragsdale, of Richmond, in Surrey, who was the intimate friend
of Collins, states that some of his Odes were written while on a visit at his,
Mr. Ragsdale’s house. The poet, however, had such a poor opinion of his
own productions, that after showing them to Mr. Ragsdale, he would snatch
them from him, and throw them into the fire; and in this way, it is believed,
many of Collins’s finest pieces were destroyed. Such of his Odes as were
published, on his own account in 1746, were not popular; and, disappointed
at the slowness of the sale, the poet burnt the remaining copies with his own
hands.

C A P TA I N M O R R I S ’ S S O N G S .
Alas! poor Morris—writes one—we knew him well. Who that has once
read or heard his songs, can forget their rich and graceful imagery; the
fertile fancy, the touching sentiment, and the “soul reviving” melody, which
characterize every line of these delightful lyrics? Well do we remember, too,
his “old buff waistcoat,” his courteous manner, and his gentlemanly
pleasantry, long after this Nestor of song had retired to enjoy the delights of
rural life, despite the prayer of his racy verse:
 “In town let me live, then, in town let me die;
For in truth I can’t relish the country, not I.
If one must have a villa in summer to dwell,
Oh! give me the sweet, shady side of Pall Mall.”

Captain Morris was born about the middle of the last century, and
outlived the majority of the bon vivant society which he gladdened with his
genius, and lit up with his brilliant humour.
Yet, many readers of the present generation may ask, “Who was Captain
Morris?” He was born of good family, in the celebrated year 1745, and
appears to have inherited a taste for literary composition; for his father
composed the popular song of Kitty Crowder.
For more than half a century, Captain Morris moved in the first circles.
He was the “sun of the table” at Carlton House, as well as at Norfolk
House; and attaching himself politically, as well as convivially, to his dinner
companions, he composed the celebrated ballads of “Billy’s too young to
drive us,” and “Billy Pitt and the Farmer,” which continued long in fashion,
as brilliant satires upon the ascendant politics of their day. His humorous
ridicule of the Tories was, however, but ill repaid by the Whigs upon their
accession to office; at least, if we may trust the beautiful ode of “The Old
Whig Poet to his Old Buff Waistcoat.” We are not aware of this piece being
included in any edition of the “Songs.” It bears date “G. R., August 1,
1815;” six years subsequent to which we saw it among the papers of the late
Alexander Stephens.
Captain Morris’s “Songs” were very popular. In 1830, we possessed a
copy of the 24th edition; we remember one of the ditties to have been “sung
by the Prince of Wales to a certain lady,” to the air of “There’s a difference
between a beggar and a queen.” Morris’s finest Anacreontic, is the song Ad
Poculum, for which he received the gold cup of the Harmonic Society:
 “Come thou soul-reviving cup!
Try thy healing art;
Stir the fancy’s visions up,
And warm my wasted heart.
Touch with freshening tints of bliss
Memory’s fading dream;
Give me, while thy lip I kiss,
The heaven that’s in thy stream.”

Of the famous Beefsteak Club, (at first limited to twenty-four members,

but increased to twenty-five, to admit the Prince of Wales,) Captain Morris
was the laureat; of this “Jovial System” he was the intellectual centre. In the
year 1831, he bade adieu to the club, in some spirited stanzas, though
penned at “an age far beyond mortal lot.” In 1835, he was permitted to
revisit the club, when they presented him with a large silver bowl,
appropriately inscribed.
It would not be difficult to string together gems from the Captain’s
Lyrics. In “The Toper’s Apology”, one of his most sparkling songs, occurs
this brilliant version of Addison’s comparison of wits with flying fish:—

“My Muse, too, when her wings are dry,

No frolic flight will take;
But round a bowl she’ll dip and fly,
Like swallows round a lake.
Then, if the nymph will have her share
Before she’ll bless her swain,
Why that I think’s a reason fair
To fill my glass again.”

Many years since, Captain Morris retired to a villa at Brockham, near the
foot of Box Hill, in Surrey. This property, it is said, was presented to him by
his old friend, the Duke of Norfolk. Here the Captain “drank the pure
pleasures of the rural life” long after many a bright light of his own time
had flickered out, and become almost forgotten; even “the sweet, shady side
of Pall Mall” had almost disappeared, and with it the princely house
whereat he was wont to shine. He died July 11, 1835, in his ninety-third
year, of internal inflammation of only four days.
 Morris presented a rare combination of mirth and prudence, such as
human conduct seldom offers for our imitation. He retained his gaieté de
cœur to the last; so that, with equal truth and spirit, he remonstrated:

“When life charms my heart, must I kindly be told,

I’m too gay and too happy for one that’s so old.”

Captain Morris left his autobiography to his family; but it has not been
published.

L I T E R A RY D I N N E R S .
Incredible as it may appear, it is sometimes stated very confidently, that
English authors and actors who give dinners, are treated with greater
indulgence by certain critics than those who do not. But, it has never been
said that any critical journal in England, with the slightest pretensions to
respectability, was in the habit of levying black mail in this Rob Roy
fashion, upon writers or articles of any kind. Yet it is alleged, on high
authority, that many of the French critical journals are or were principally
supported from such a source. For example, there is a current anecdote to
the effect that when the celebrated singer Nourrit died, the editor of one of
the musical reviews waited on his successor, Duprez, and, with a profusion
of compliments and apologies, intimated to him that Nourrit had invariably
allowed 2000 francs a year to the review. Duprez, taken rather aback,
expressed his readiness to allow half that sum. “Bien, monsieur,” said the
editor, with a shrug, “mais, parole d’honneur, j’y perds mille francs.”

P O P U L A R I T Y O F T H E P I C K W I C K PA P E R S .
Mr. Davy, who accompanied Colonel Cheney up the Euphrates, was for a
time in the service of Mehemet Ali Pacha. “Pickwick” happening to reach
Davy while he was at Damascus, he read a part of it to the Pacha, who was
so delighted with it, that Davy was, on one occasion, called up in the middle
of the night to finish the reading of the chapter in which he and the Pacha
had been interrupted. Mr. Davy read, in Egypt, upon another occasion, some
passages from these unrivalled “Papers” to a blind Englishman, who was in
such ecstasy with what he heard, that he exclaimed he was almost thankful
he could not see he was in a foreign country; for that while he listened, he
felt completely as though he were again in England.—Lady Chatterton.

SWIFT’S DISAPPOINTMENT
“I remember when I was a little boy, (writes Swift in a letter to
Bolingbroke,) I felt a great fish at the end of my line, which I drew up
almost on the ground, but it dropt in, and the disappointment vexes me to
this day; and I believe it was the type of all my future disappointments.”
“This little incident,” writes Percival, “perhaps gave the first wrong bias
to a mind predisposed to such impressions; and by operating with so much
strength and permanency, it might possibly lay the foundation of the Dean’s
subsequent peevishness, passion, misanthropy, and final insanity.”

L E I G H H U N T A N D T H O M A S C A R LY L E .
The following characteristic story of these two “intellectual gladiators” is
related in “A New Spirit of the Age.”
Leigh Hunt and Carlyle were once present among a small party of
equally well known men. It chanced that the conversation rested with these
two, both first-rate talkers, and the others sat well pleased to listen. Leigh
Hunt had said something about the islands of the Blest, or El Dorado, or the
Millennium, and was flowing on in his bright and hopeful way, when
Carlyle dropt some heavy tree-trunk across Hunt’s pleasant stream, and
banked it up with philosophical doubts and objections at every interval of
the speaker’s joyous progress. But the unmitigated Hunt never ceased his
overflowing anticipations, nor the saturnine Carlyle his infinite demurs to
those finite flourishings. The listeners laughed and applauded by turns; and
had now fairly pitted them against each other, as the philosopher of
Hopefulness and of the Unhopeful. The contest continued with all that ready
wit and philosophy, that mixture of pleasantry and profundity, that extensive
knowledge of books and character, with their ready application in argument
or illustration, and that perfect ease and good-nature, which distinguish each
of these men. The opponents were so well matched, that it was quite clear
the contest would never come to an end. But the night was far advanced,
and the party broke up. They all sallied forth; and leaving the close room,
the candles and the arguments behind them, suddenly found themselves in
presence of a most brilliant star-light night. They all looked up. “Now,”
thought Hunt, “Carlyle’s done for!—he can have no answer to that!”
“There!” shouted Hunt, “look up there! look at that glorious harmony, that
sings with infinite voices an eternal song of hope in the soul of man.”
Carlyle looked up. They all remained silent to hear what he would say. They
began to think he was silenced at last—he was a mortal man. But out of that
silence came a few low-toned words, in a broad Scotch accent. And who, on
earth, could have anticipated what the voice said? “Eh! it’s a sad
sight!”—— Hunt sat down on a stone step. They all laughed—then looked
very thoughtful. Had the finite measured itself with infinity, instead of
surrendering itself up to the influence? Again they laughed—then bade each
other good night, and betook themselves homeward with slow and serious
pace. There might be some reason for sadness, too. That brilliant firmament
probably contained infinite worlds, each full of struggling and suffering
beings—of beings who had to die—for life in the stars implies that those
bright worlds should also be full of graves; but all that life, like ours,
knowing not whence it came, nor whither it goeth, and the brilliant
Universe in its great Movement having, perhaps, no more certain
knowledge of itself, nor of its ultimate destination, than hath one of the
suffering specks that compose this small spot we inherit.

COWPER’S POEMS.
Johnson, the publisher in St. Paul’s Churchyard, obtained the copyright of
Cowper’s Poems, which proved a great source of profit to him, in the
following manner:—One evening, a relation of Cowper’s called upon
Johnson with a portion of the MS. poems, which he offered for publication,
provided Johnson would publish them at his own risk, and allow the author
to have a few copies to give to his friends. Johnson read the poems,
approved of them, and accordingly published them. Soon after they had
appeared, there was scarcely a reviewer who did not load them with the
most scurrilous abuse, and condemn them to the butter shops; and the public
taste being thus terrified or misled, these charming effusions stood in the
corner of the publisher’s shop as an unsaleable pile for a long time.
At length, Cowper’s relation called upon Johnson with another bundle of
the poet’s MS., which was offered and accepted upon the same terms as
before. In this fresh collection was the poem of the “Task.” Not alarmed at
the fate of the former publication, but thoroughly assured of the great merit
of the poems, they were published. The tone of the reviewers became
changed, and Cowper was hailed as the first poet of the age. The success of
this second publication set the first in motion. Johnson immediately reaped
the fruits of his undaunted judgment; and Cowper’s poems enriched the
publisher, when the poet was in languishing circumstances. In October,
1812, the copyright of Cowper’s poems was put up to sale among the
London booksellers, in thirty-two shares. Twenty of the shares were sold at
212l. each. The work, consisting of two octavo volumes, was satisfactorily
proved at the sale to net 834l. per annum. It had only two years of
copyright; yet this same copyright produced the sum of 6764l.

HEARNE’S LOVE OF ALE.

Thomas Warton, in his Account of Oxford, relates that at the sign of
Whittington and his Cat, the laborious antiquary, Thomas Hearne, “one
evening suffered himself to be overtaken in liquor. But, it should be
remembered, that this accident was more owing to his love of antiquity than
of ale. It happened that the kitchen where he and his companion were sitting
was neatly paved with sheep’s trotters disposed in various compartments.
After one pipe, Mr. Hearne, consistently with his usual gravity and sobriety,
rose to depart; but his friend, who was inclined to enjoy more of his
company, artfully observed, that the floor on which they were then sitting
was no less than an original tesselated Roman pavement. Out of respect to
classic ground, and on recollection that the Stunsfield Roman pavement, on
which he had just published a dissertation, was dedicated to Bacchus, our
antiquary cheerfully complied; an enthusiastic transport seized his
imagination; he fell on his knees and kissed the sacred earth, on which, in a
few hours, and after a few tankards, by a sort of sympathetic attraction, he
was obliged to repose for some part of the evening. His friend was,
probably, in the same condition; but two printers accidentally coming in,
conducted Mr. Hearne, between them, to Edmund’s Hall, with much state
and solemnity.”

S H E R I D A N ’ S W I T.
Sheridan’s wit was eminently brilliant, and almost always successful; it
was, like all his speaking, exceedingly prepared, but it was skilfully
introduced and happily applied; and it was well mingled, also, with humour,
occasionally descending to farce. How little it was the inspiration of the
moment all men were aware who knew his habits; but a singular proof of
this was presented to Mr. Moore, when he came to write his life; for we
there find given to the world, with a frankness which must have almost
made their author shake in his grave, the secret note-books of this famous
wit; and are thus enabled to trace the jokes, in embryo, with which he had
so often made the walls of St. Stephen’s shake, in a merriment excited by
the happy appearance of sudden unpremeditated effusion.—Lord
Brougham.
Take an instance from this author, giving extracts from the common-
place book of the wit:—“He employs his fancy in his narrative, and keeps
his recollections for his wit.” Again, the same idea is expanded into “When
he makes his jokes, you applaud the accuracy of his memory, and ’tis only
when he states his facts that you admire the flights of his imagination.” But
the thought was too good to be thus wasted on the desert air of a common-
place book. So, forth it came, at the expense of Kelly, who, having been a
composer of music, became a wine-merchant. “You will,” said the ready
wit, “import your music and compose your wine.” Nor was this service
exacted from the old idea thought sufficient; so, in the House of Commons,
an easy and, apparently, off-hand parenthesis was thus filled with it, at Mr.
Dundas’s cost and charge, “who generally resorts to his memory for his
jokes, and to his imagination for his facts.”

S M O L L E T T ’ S H I S T O RY O F E N G L A N D .
This man of genius among trading authors, before he began his History of
England, wrote to the Earl of Shelburne, then in the Whig Administration,
offering, if the Earl would procure for his work the patronage of the
Government, he would accommodate his politics to the Ministry; but if not,
that he had high promises of support from the other party. Lord Shelburne,
of course, treated the proffered support of a writer of such accommodating
principles with contempt; and the work of Smollett, accordingly, became
distinguished for its high Toryism. The history was published in sixpenny
weekly numbers, of which 20,000 copies were sold immediately. This
extraordinary popularity was created by the artifice of the publisher. He is
stated to have addressed a packet of the specimens of the publication to
every parish-clerk in England, carriage-free, with half-a-crown enclosed as
a compliment, to have them distributed through the pews of the church: this
being generally done, many people read the specimens instead of listening
to the sermon, and the result was an universal demand for the work.

M A G N A C H A RTA R E C O V E R E D .
The transcript of Magna Charta, now in the British Museum, was
discovered by Sir Robert Cotton in the possession of his tailor, who was just
about to cut the precious document out into “measures” for his customers.
Sir Robert redeemed the valuable curiosity at the price of old parchment,
and thus recovered what had long been supposed to be irretrievably lost.

FOX AND GIBBON.

When Mr. Fox’s furniture was sold by auction, after his decease in 1806,
amongst his books there was the first volume of his friend Gibbon’s Decline
and Fall of the Roman Empire: by the title-page, it appeared to have been
presented by the author to Fox, who, on the blank leaf, had written this
anecdote of the historian:—“The author, at Brookes’s, said there was no
salvation for this country until six heads of the principal persons in
administration were laid upon the table. Eleven days after, this same
gentleman accepted a place of lord of trade under those very ministers, and
has acted with them ever since!” Such was the avidity of bidders for the
most trifling production of Fox’s genius, that, by the addition of this little
record, the book sold for three guineas.

DR. JOHNSON’S PRIDE.

Sir Joshua Reynolds used to relate the following characteristic anecdote
of Johnson:—About the time of their early acquaintance, they met one
evening at the Misses Cotterell’s, when the Duchess of Argyll and another
lady of rank came in. Johnson, thinking that the Misses Cotterell were too
much engrossed by them, and that he and his friend were neglected as low
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