Anecdotes about Authors, and Artists - John Timbs

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      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.

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      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 company, of whom they were somewhat ashamed, grew angry, and, resolving to shock their suspected pride, by making the great visitors imagine they were low indeed, Johnson addressed himself in a loud tone to Reynolds, saying, “How much do you think you and I could get in a week if we were to work as hard as we could?” just as though they were ordinary mechanics.

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      The Earl of Dudley, in his Letters, (1814) says:—“To me Byron’s Corsair appears the best of all his works. Rapidity of execution is no sort of apology for doing a thing ill, but when it is done well, the wonder is so much the greater. I am told he wrote this poem at ten sittings—certainly it did not take him more than three weeks. He is a most extraordinary person, and yet there is G. Ellis, who don’t feel his merit. His creed in modern poetry (I should have said contemporary) is Walter Scott, all Walter Scott, and nothing but Walter Scott. I cannot say how I hate this petty, factious spirit in literature—it is so unworthy of a man so clever and so accomplished as Ellis undoubtedly is.”

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      Little Britain, anciently Breton-street, from the mansion of the Duke of Bretagne on that spot, in more modern times became the “Paternoster-row” of the booksellers; and a newspaper of 1664 states them to have published here within four years, 464 pamphlets. One Chiswell, resident here in 1711, was the metropolitan bookseller, “the Longman” of his time; and here lived Rawlinson (“Tom Folio” of The Tatler, No. 158), who stuffed four chambers in Gray’s Inn so full, that his bed was removed into the passage. John Day, the famous early printer, lived “over Aldersgate.”

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      A Dean of Gloucester having some merry divines at dinner with him one day, amongst other discourses they were talking of reconciling the Fathers on some points; he told them he could show them the best way in the world to reconcile them on all points of difference; so, after dinner, he carried them into his study, and showed them all the Fathers, classically ordered, with a quart of sack betwixt each of them.

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      Sir James once asked Dr. Parr to join him in a drive in his gig. The horse growing restive—“Gently, Jemmy,” the Doctor said; “don’t irritate him; always soothe your horse, Jemmy. You’ll do better without me. Let me down, Jemmy!” But once safe on the ground—“Now, Jemmy,” said the Doctor, “touch him up. Never let a horse get the better of you. Touch him up, conquer him, do not spare him. And now I’ll leave you to manage him; I’ll walk back.”

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      Sir James Mackintosh had a great deal of humour; and, among many other examples of it, he kept a dinner-party at his own house for two or three hours in a roar of laughter, playing upon the simplicity of a Scotch cousin, who had mistaken the Rev. Sydney Smith for his gallant synonym, the hero of Acre.

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      The number of Lope de Vega’s works has been strangely exaggerated by some, but by others reduced to about one-sixth of the usual statement. Upon this computation it will be found that some of his contemporaries were as prolific as himself. Vincent Mariner, a friend of Lope, left behind him 360 quires of paper full of his own compositions, in a writing so exceedingly small, and so exceedingly bad, that no person but himself could read it. Lord Holland has given a facsimile of Lope’s handwriting, and though it cannot be compared to that of a dramatist of late times, one of whose plays, in the original manuscript, is said to be a sufficient load for a porter, it is evident that one of Mariner’s pages would contain as much as a sheet of his friend’s, which would, as nearly as possible, balance the sum total. But, upon this subject, an epigram by Quarles may be applied, written upon a more serious theme:

      “In all our prayers the Almighty does regard

       The judgment of the balance, not the yard; He loves not words, but matter; ’tis his pleasure To buy his wares by weight, not by measure.”

      With regard to the quantity of Lope’s writings, a complete edition of them would not much, if at all, exceed those of Voltaire, who, in labour of composition, for he sent nothing into the world carelessly, must have greatly exceeded Lope. And the labours of these men shrink into insignificance when compared to those of some of the schoolmen and of the Fathers.

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      Other writers, of the same age with Lope de Vega, obtained a wider celebrity. Don Quixote, during the life of its ill-requited author, was naturalized in countries where the name of Lope de Vega was not known, and Du Bartas was translated into the language of every reading people. But no writer ever has enjoyed such a share of popularity.

      “Cardinal Barberini,” says Lord Holland, “followed Lope with veneration in the streets; the king would stop to gaze at such a prodigy; the people crowded round him wherever he appeared; the learned and studious thronged to Madrid from every part of Spain to see this phœnix of their country, this monster of literature; and even Italians, no extravagant admirers, in general, of poetry that is not their own, made pilgrimages from their country for the sole purpose of conversing with Lope. So associated was the idea of excellence with his name, that it grew, in common conversation, to signify

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