rior
to myself reminds me of what will be thought of myself. I blush
to flatter them, or to be flattered by them; and should dread
letters being published some time or other, in which they would
relate our interviews, and we should appear like those puny
conceited witlings in Shenstone's and Hughes's correspondence,
who give themselves airs from being in possession of the soil
of Parnassus for the time being; as peers are proud because they
enjoy the estates of great men who went before them. Mr. Gough is
very welcome to see Strawberry-hill, or I would help him to
any scraps in my possession that would assist his publications,
though he is one of those industrious who are only re-burying the
dead--but I cannot be acquainted with him; it is contrary to
my system and my humour; and besides I know nothing of barrows
and Danish entrenchments, and Saxon barbarisms and Phoenician
characters--in short, I know nothing of those ages that knew
nothing--then how should I be of use to modern literati? All the
Scotch metaphysicians have sent me their works. I did not read one
of them, because I do not understand what is not understood by
those that write about it; and I did not get acquainted with
one of the writers. I should like to be intimate with Mr.
Anstey, even though he wrote Lord Buckhorse, or with the author
of the Heroic Epistle--I have no thirst to know the rest of my
contemporaries, from the absurd bombast of Dr. Johnson down to
the silly Dr. Goldsmith, though the latter changeling has had
bright gleams of parts, and the former had sense, till he
changed it for words, and sold it for a pension. Don't think me
scornful. Recollect that I have seen Pope, and lived with
Gray.--Adieu!"

Such a letter seems not to have been written by a literary man--it is
the babble of a thoughtless wit and a man of the world. But it is
worthy of him whose contracted heart could never open to patronage or
friendship. From such we might expect the unfeeling observation in the
"Anecdotes of Painting," that "want of patronage is the apology for
want of genius. Milton and La Fontaine did not write in the bask of
court favour. A poet or a painter may want an equipage or a villa, by
wanting protection; they can always afford to buy ink and paper,
colours and pencil. Mr. Hogarth has received no honours, but universal
admiration." Patronage, indeed, cannot convert dull men into men of
genius,