A LONELY GENIUS.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 19946, 13 November 1926, Page 25

A LONELY GENIUS.

POLISHED WIT AND WRITER. EARL OF CHESTERFIELD. Softly open tho great oaken door and gaze upon a small, thick-set, perfectly attired nobleman of the eighteenth century, who is quietly enjoying himself in one of tho finest rooms that the world has known. See him 1 How his delicate hands finger the smooth leaves of the book which rests before him on his elaborate desk; how his close-set lips curl slightly as he turns from his amusement and looks on tho most spacious private garden in London. Ho slowly rises, and replaces tho book in its particular niche on tho wall. What ex-pensively-covered walls! All round this palatial study tho walls are covered halfway up with classical stores of literature, and above the book cases are the portraits of famous authors of France and England, with most of whom this epicure of all things was personally acquainted. Above the portraits in foot-long capitals right round the room one sees choice quotations from Horace. The elaborately-carved mantelpieces and curio cabinets are beautifully adorned with busts of noted orators, and here and there in antique or Italian bronze are voluptuous vases. Interspersed amidst this gorgeous misoallanea the eye is dazzled by intriguing statuettes in marble or alabaster of nude’ or semi-nude beauties of tho opera. Philip Dormer tSanhope, fourth Ear] of Chesterfield, blessed with wealth, power, and position, and not by any moans troubled by his conscience, resumes his seat and languidly regards the magnificent, lace which falls in folds from his wrists over his hands. He is engaged in happy conversation now with a whimsical little fellow who nestles in a small bow of a small window. A servant announces a certain Dr Johnson, and after slyly glancing at his friend in the bow window the earl negligently waves his hand and instructs the servant to inform this doctor follow that “my lord has company with him.” For some time the prince of table wits enjoys himself in the company of the little man in tho bow wdndow and then the door of the study is thrown open, and to tho unutterable disgust of the lumbering dictionary genius, who should stop out; but Coley Cibber? Johnson did not mind being kept waiting for people greater than himself, but to be shut up in the anteroom to await Colev Cibber’s pleasure—it was too mifth. However, Chesterfield was honoured by having the plan of Johnson’s dictionary inscribed to him, but he constantly neglected the poor genius who had struggled so valiantly, until that dav arrived when Johnson penned that letter which scolded snobbery and dealt the death blow to patronage. In that latter occurs the following passage:—“Seven years, my lord, nave now passed since I waited in your outward room, or was repulsed from your door, during which time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties of which it is useless to complain, and have broiignt_ it at last to the verge of publication without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile of favour. Such treatment I did not expect, for I never had a patron beX ’ J s not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man who is struggling fo r Iff© j n tho water, and when be lias cached ground encumbo shim with help? Everyone possessed of manly spirit commended Johnson’s action except his publisher, Mr R. Dodsley. Raid Johnson, referring to Chesterfield: “I thought ™ s had been a lord among wits, but I find he is only a wit among lords.” But Johnson was justly biassed. Chesterfield was the most consummate dissimulate and most polished wit of his time, and his name will go down to posterity as the writer of those truly remarkable letters which he penned to his natural son, Philip Stanhope. Even Johnson was obliged to admit the merit of those letters which wore subsequently published in book form. “Take out tho immorality,” he de°u re i ‘ t!lr, d tho book should bo "put into the hands of every young gentleman.” Chesterfield, it should ho remembered, lived in an age when women were deemed fhe just prey of men of. wealth and fashion. Born in Loudon on September 2, 1694, Chesterfield, who was destined to become tho future wit, historian, orator, and man of fashion was utterly neglected by his father. His grandmother, the famous Marchioness of Halifax, was to this brilliant child both mother and father, and at the ago of 18 she had him entered at Trinity College Cambridge where he studied the humanities with marked success. With everything he did Chesterfield took great pains. Ho would spend as much time over the arrangement of his cravat as over tho planning of an oration which was to be delivered before the lords of Britain. From Paris he once wrote: “I spend an immense sum in hair powder, feathers and white gloves.” Chesterfield's ambition was to make every man and woman love him. He did not succeed. He was admired, but not loved. When young lie injured both body and soul by boundless folly and dissipation but ho was shrewd enough always to devote a certain time each day to serious study, and when ho could not have it otherwise he took it out of his sleep. He read deeply and well. Ho had a strong objection to desultory reading, and on this sub’cct he wrote to his son, “Throw away none of your time upon those trivial, futile books published by idle, necessitous authors for the amusement of the idle and ignorant readers.” Ho concentrated his energies upon oratory, and became one of tho finest speakers of his day. He soon rose to high eminence in the diplomatic service, and was appointed an ambassador to several courts. In this capacity he was most successful, for, as Sir H. Wotton wittily remarked, an ambassador’s duty was to lie abroad for tho good of his country. In 1733 he married Molusina, the aurnosed niece, but in fact the daughter of the Duchess of Kendal, the mistress of George 1., and (here yvas no particular attraction about Melusina except her expected dowry Con corning this dowry many strange tales were told but instead of receiving £40.000 out of the deal, George II so mutilated his royal father’s will that Chesterfield was obliged to compromise with £20.000. Chedorfield soon tired of a wife whom he did not love or respect, and he formed a connection with a beautiful lady who lived in the Netherlands named Madame du Boucher, and it was to his sen by this union that he wrote those famous letters. Ho lavished all tho love he was capable of on this son, and it was his desire that the young man’ should achieve fame us a diplomat. Consummate dissimulator him self, Chesterfield tried to mould the boy after his own style. Someone has remarked that it was an extraordinary thing that a man who loved his son so entirely should have done all in his power to make him a rascal. However, the boy did not suffer much on account of the worldly teaching of his father, and when he died in 17fc8. a few years before his father, he had proved himself to be both learned and =en?ihlc. During his brilliant reign Chesterfield had been Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and in that important position he stands out as a a real statesman. He behved to the Irish, and especially those of the Roman Catholic persuasion, in a lenient manner, which was very conspicuous in those days of rabid intolerance. He attended to the King’s business in Ireland in a thorough, competent, and generous rhanner. but Court favour did not endure, and before he could give effect to some reforms - which he deemed advisable he was recalled. Although he detested gaming, yet it became the ruling passion of his life. He was a man who staked immense sums, hut always endeavoured to warn others against that folly which beguiled so much of his time. Brilliant, witty, dashing, and wealthy, it was remarkable that the world left him before he left tho world. After the death of his son he gradually sank into obscurity. His health began to fail, but yet his love for the materially beautiful and magnificent never _ deserted him. His house was perfect in every particular, and those who visited him. and his visitors came from all parts of the Continent as well as England, were charmed by his gracefulness of speech and manner. Even deafness did not dismay him. He simply showered bons mot all over the world, and till the Inst minute of his life his lips dropped repartees that sparkled with the dazzle of his younger days. He used to drive through the streets of London every day, and on one occasion when a French writer visited him he begged to be excused. “ for,” he explained. “ T must go and rehearse my funeral.” Thus he referred to his daily drive. France knew him ns the most amiable, tho most polite, and the most spirited gentleman of three' kingdoms. His code of life was dissimulation; he conceived existence as being one great effort to deceive; to him formed one big lie; his aim was success, and, although he made a career, yet he failed to make a life. When 79

years of age he died, one of the most utterly unloved men in the world. His will was a strange one. “Satiated witli the pompous- follies of this life,” he wrote in his will, “ I would have no posthumous ones displayed at my funeral, and therefore desire to be buried in the noYt burying plare to the place where T shall die, and limit the whole expense of my funeral to £100.” Thus lived and died a picturesque man. who always followed the cxpe’mnt in preference to the right.