'
When we say that Lord Chesterfield was a man who had _no friend_, we sum
up his character in those few words. Just after his death a small but
distinguished party of men dined together at Topham Beauclerk's. There
was Sir Joshua Reynolds; Sir William Jones, the orientalist; Bennet
Langton; Steevens; Boswell; Johnson. The conversation turned on Garrick,
who, Johnson said, had friends, but no friend. Then Boswell asked, 'what
is a friend?' 'One who comforts and supports you, while others do not.'
'Friendship, you know, sir, is the cordial drop to make the nauseous
draught of life go down.' Then one of the company mentioned Lord
Chesterfield as one who had no friend; and Boswell said: 'Garrick was
pure gold, but beat out to thin leaf, Lord Chesterfield was tinsel.'
And, for once, Johnson did not contradict him. But not so do we judge
Lord Chesterfield. He was a man who acted on false principles through
life; and those principles gradually undermined everything that was
noble and generous in character; just as those deep under-ground
currents, noiseless in their course, work through fine-grained rock, and
produce a chasm. Everything with Chesterfield was self: for self, and
self alone, were agreeable qualities to be assumed; for self, was the
country to be served, because that country protects and serves us: for
self, were friends to be sought and cherished, as useful auxiliaries, or
pleasant accessories: in the very core of the cankered heart, that
advocated this corrupting doctrine of expediency, lay unbelief; that
worm which never died in the hearts of so many illustrious men of that
period--the refrigerator of the feelings.
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