This intellectual nobility is not chimerical.  Such titles must be found indeed, in the years which are to come; yet the prelude of their fame distinguishes these men from the crowd.  Whenever the rightful possessor appears, will not the eyes of all spectators be fixed on him?  I allude to scenes which I have witnessed.  Will not even literary honours superadd a nobility to nobility; and make a name instantly recognised which might otherwise be hidden under its rank, and remain unknown by its title?  Our illustrious list of literary noblemen is far more glorious than the satirical “Catalogue of Noble Authors,” drawn up by a polished and heartless cynic, who has pointed his brilliant shafts at all who were chivalrous in spirit, or related to the family of genius.  One may presume on the existence of this intellectual nobility, from the extraordinary circumstance that the great have actually felt a jealousy of the literary rank.  But no rivalry can exist in the solitary honour conferred on an author.  It is not an honour derived from birth nor creation, but from PUBLIC OPINION, and inseparable from his name, as an essential quality; for the diamond will sparkle and the rose will be fragrant, otherwise it is no diamond or rose.  The great may well condescend to be humble to genius, since genius pays its homage in becoming proud of that humility.  Cardinal Richelieu was mortified at the celebrity of the unbending CORNEILLE; so were several noblemen at POPE’S indifference to their rank; and MAGLIABECHI, the book prodigy of his age, whom every literary stranger visited at Florence, assured Lord Raley that the Duke of Tuscany had become jealous of the attention he was receiving from foreigners, as they usually went to visit MAGLIABECHI before the Grand Duke.

A confession by MONTESQUIEU states, with open candour, a fact in his life which confirms this jealousy of the great with the literary character.  “On my entering into life I was spoken of as a man of talents, and people of condition gave me a favourable reception; but when the success of my Persian Letters proved perhaps that I was not unworthy of my reputation, and the public began to esteem me, my reception with the great was discouraging, and I experienced innumerable mortifications." Montesquieu subjoins a reflection sufficiently humiliating for the mere nobleman:  “The great, inwardly wounded with the glory of a celebrated name, seek to humble it.  In general he only can patiently endure the fame of others, who deserves fame himself.”  This sort of jealousy unquestionably prevailed in the late Lord ORFORD, a wit, a man of the world, and a man of rank; but while he considered literature as a mere amusement, he was mortified at not obtaining literary celebrity; he felt his authorial always beneath his personal character.  It fell to my lot to develope his real feelings respecting himself and the literary men of his age.[A]