’As I walked out before breakfast with Mr. Burke, I proposed to him to revise and enlarge his admirable book on the Sublime and Beautiful, which the experience, reading, and observation of thirty years could not but enable him to improve considerably.  But he said the train of his thoughts had gone another way, and the whole bent of his mind turned from such subjects, and that he was much fitter for such speculations at the time he published that book than now.’

Between the Burke of 1758 and the Burke of 1789 there was a difference indeed, but the forcible expressions, ‘the train of my thoughts’ and ‘the whole bent of my mind,’ serve to create a new impression of the tremendous energy and fertile vigour of this amazing man.  The next day the party went over to Amersham and admired Mr. Drake’s trees, and listened to Sir Joshua’s criticisms of Mr. Drake’s pictures.  This was a fortnight after the taking of the Bastille.  Burke’s hopes were still high.  The Revolution had not yet spoilt his temper.

Amongst the Charlemont papers is an amusing tale I do not remember having ever seen before of young Philip Stanhope, the recipient of Lord Chesterfield’s famous letters: 

’When at Berne, where he passed some of his boyhood in company with Harte and the excellent Mr., now Lord, Eliott (Heathfield of Gibraltar), he was one evening invited to a party where, together with some ladies, there happened to be a considerable number of Bernese senators, a dignified set of elderly gentlemen, aristocratically proud, and perfect strangers to fun.  These most potent, grave, and reverend signors were set down to whist, and were so studiously attentive to the game, that the unlucky brat found little difficulty in fastening to the backs of their chairs the flowing tails of their ample periwigs and in cutting, unobserved by them, the tyes of their breeches.  This done, he left the room, and presently re-entered crying out, “Fire!  Fire!” The affrighted burgomasters suddenly bounced up, and exhibited to the amazed spectators their senatorial heads and backs totally deprived of ornament or covering.’

Young Stanhope was no ordinary child.  There is a completeness about this jest which proclaims it a masterpiece.  One or other of its points might have occurred to anyone, but to accomplish both at once was to show real distinction.

Sir William Stanhope, Lord Chesterfield’s brother, felt no surprise at his nephew’s failure to acquire the graces.  ‘What,’ said he, ’could Chesterfield expect?  His mother was Dutch, he was educated at Leipsic, and his tutor was a pedant from Oxford.’

Papers which contain anecdotes of this kind carry with them their own recommendation.  We hear on all sides complaints—­and I hold them to be just complaints—­of the abominable high prices of English books.  Thirty shillings, thirty-six shillings, are common prices.  The thing is too barefaced.  His Majesty’s Stationery Office set an excellent example.  They sell an octavo volume of 460 closely but well-printed pages, provided with an excellent index, for one shilling and elevenpence.  There is not much editing, but the quality of it is good.