Lady Correspondents.--Madame de Genlis.--Miss Burney and Hannah
More.--Deaths of Mrs. Clive and Sir Horace Mann.--Story of
Madame de Choiseul.--Richmond.--Queensberry House.--Warren
Hastings.--Genteel Comedy.--St. Swithin.--Riverside
Conceits.--Lord North.--The Theatre again.--Gibbon’s
History.--Sheridan.--Conway’s Comedy.--A Turkish War.--Society
Newspapers.--The Misses Berry.--Bonner’s Ghost.--The Arabian
Nights.--King’s College Chapel.--Richmond Society.--New
Arrivals.--The Berrys visit Italy.--A Farewell Letter.
No one who has looked through Walpole’s published letters can have
failed to observe that the great majority of those which belong to
the last twelve or thirteen years of the writer’s life are addressed
to female correspondents. This is not an accidental circumstance. It
is clear that, as his old friends dropped off, Horace supplied their
places, in almost every instance, with women. The antiquary Pinkerton
succeeds to the antiquary Cole,[100] but Montagu and Mason, Sir
Horace Mann[101] and Lord Strafford,[102] had no successors of their
own sex. Except when literary topics were on the carpet, Walpole, in
his latter days, shrank from engaging in discussion with younger
and more vigorous men. In several passages of his correspondence, he
acknowledges this feeling of reserve and shyness. But with ladies of
every class he was always at home and at ease. Old or young, grave or
gay, English or French, they found him their devoted servant, full of
nicely adjusted gallantry, never too busy to entertain with gossip
and letters, ever ready to assist with advice, and, when occasion
required, with the contents of a well-stocked purse. Thus, from the
year 1785 onwards, we have him generally in correspondence with ladies,
and as often as not, about ladies. During the first part of this
period especially, sketches of well-known women meet us, thrown off at
frequent intervals by his practised pen. Here is an account of a visit
from Madame de Genlis in July, 1785:
“You surprise me, Madam, by saying the newspapers mention my
disappointment of seeing Madame de Genlis. How can such arrant
trifles spread? It is very true, that as the hill would not
go to see Madame de Genlis, she has come to see the hill. Ten
days ago Mrs. Cosway sent me a note that _Madame_ desired a
ticket for Strawberry Hill. I thought I could not do less than
offer her a breakfast, and named yesterday se’nnight. Then came
a message that she must go to Oxford and take her Doctor’s
degree; and then another, that I should see her yesterday,
when she did arrive with Miss Wilkes and Pamela, whom she did
not even present to me, and whom she has educated to be very
like herself in the face. I told her I could not attribute
the honour of her visit but to my late dear friend Madame du
Deffand. It rained the whole time, and was dark as midnight, so
that she could scarce distinguish a picture; but you will want
an account of her, and not of what she saw or could not see.
Her person is agreeable, and she seems to have been pretty.
Her conversation is natural and reasonable, not _précieuse_
and affected, and searching to be eloquent, as I had expected.
I asked her if she had been pleased with Oxford, meaning the
buildings, not the wretched oafs that inhabit it. She said she
had had little time; that she had wished to learn their plan
of education, which, as she said sensibly, she supposed was
adapted to our Constitution. I could have told her that it is
directly repugnant to our Constitution, and that nothing is
taught there but drunkenness and prerogative, or, in their
language, Church and King. I asked if it is true that the
new edition of Voltaire’s works is prohibited: she replied,
severely,--and then condemned those who write against religion
and government, which was a little unlucky before her friend
_Miss Wilkes_. She stayed two hours, and returns to France
to-day _to her duty_. I really do not know whether the Duc de
Chartres is in England or not. She did lodge in his house in
Portland Place; but at Paris, I think, has an hotel where she
educates his daughters.”
A little later, he reports: “Dr. Burney and his daughter,
Evelina-Cecilia, have passed a day and a half with me.[103] He is
lively and agreeable; she half-and-half sense and modesty, which
possess her so entirely, that not a cranny is left for affectation or
pretension. Oh! Mrs. Montagu, you are not above half as accomplished.”
This was an unusual tribute from the fastidious Horace.
Here, too, we must introduce the name of another literary lady, whose
acquaintance with our author, begun some time previously, ripened about
this date into an occasional exchange of letters. Hannah More,[104]
then one of the Vesey coterie in Clarges Street, which, however, she
presently quitted, ranked, we conceive, in Walpole’s estimation,
about midway between Mrs. Montagu and Miss Burney. Writing to Hannah,
not long after her retirement from London, he says: “The last time I
saw her,” that is Mrs. Vesey, “Miss Burney passed the evening there,
looking quite recovered and well, and so cheerful and agreeable, that
the Court seems only to have improved the ease of her manner, instead
of stamping more reserve on it, as I feared: but what slight graces
it can give, will not compensate to us and the world for the loss of
her company and her writings. Not but that _some young ladies_ who can
write, can stifle their talent as much as if they were under lock and
key in the royal library. I do not see but _a cottage_ is as pernicious
to genius as the Queen’s waiting-room.”
Walpole had laughed at the “Blue-stockings,” but he bows graciously to
the authors of “Cecilia” and “Percy,” and marks by an altered style of
address his sense of the difference between the tone of these ladies
and that of the Lady Ossorys and Kitty Clives with whom his youth and
middle life had been spent. Poor Kitty’s old age of cards came to an
end before the close of 1785, and Cliveden, which she had occupied for
more than thirty years, stood for awhile untenanted. Horace lamented
the loss of his old friend and neighbour, but she was several years
senior to himself, and her death was not unexpected. The pair had lived
so much together that probably few letters passed between them: none
have been preserved, and the removal of the lady makes no gap in the
gentleman’s correspondence. It is otherwise with the next name which
was struck from Walpole’s list of old familiar acquaintances. Shortly
after losing a friend from whom he was never long parted, he lost
the friend whom he never met. No long time had elapsed since Walpole
had written to Mann: “Shall we not be very venerable in the annals
of friendship? What Orestes and Pylades ever wrote to each other for
four-and-forty years without meeting? A correspondence of near half
a century is not to be paralleled in the annals of the Post Office.”
Again, about the time of Mrs. Clive’s death: “_Now_ I think we are like
Castor and Pollux; when one rises, t’other sets; when you can write, I
cannot. I have got a very sharp attack of gout in my right hand.… Your
being so well is a great comfort to me.” Despite this congratulation,
however, the Ambassador was very near to his final setting. He died at
Florence on the 16th of November, 1786, after a long illness, during
the latter part of which he was apparently not in a condition to
receive letters. Walpole’s last letter to him is dated June 22, 1786.
It makes the eight hundred and ninth in the collection, as printed, of
Walpole’s part of the correspondence between them.
But we must not suppose that Lady Ossory’s gazetteer is all this time
forgetful of his Countess. Here is an anecdote which he sends her in
the early part of 1786:
“How do you like, Madam, the following story? A young Madame
de Choiseul is inloved with by Monsieur de Coigny and Prince
Joseph of Monaco. She longed for a parrot that should be a
miracle of eloquence: every other shop in Paris sells mackaws,
parrots, cockatoos, &c. No wonder one at least of the rivals
soon found a Mr. Pitt, and the bird was immediately declared
the nymph’s first minister: but as she had two passions as
well as two lovers, she was also enamoured of General Jackoo
at Astley’s. The unsuccessful candidate offered Astley ingots
for his monkey, but Astley demanding a _terre_ for life,
the paladin was forced to desist, but fortunately heard of
another miracle of parts of the Monomotapan race, who was not
in so exalted a sphere of life, being only a _marmiton_ in a
kitchen, where he had learnt to pluck fowls with an inimitable
dexterity. This dear animal was not invaluable, was bought, and
presented to Madame de Choiseul, who immediately made him the
_secretaire de ses commandemens_. Her caresses were distributed
equally to the animals, and her thanks to the donors. The
first time she went out, the two former were locked up in her
bed-chamber. Ah! I dread to tell the sequel. When the lady
returned and flew to her chamber, Jackoo the second received
her with all the _empressement_ possible--but where was
Poll?--found at last under the bed, shivering and cowering--and
without a feather, as stark as any Christian. Poll’s presenter
concluded that his rival had given the monkey with that very
view, challenged him, they fought, and both were wounded; and
an heroic adventure it was!”
Mrs. Clive being dead, and another sister-in-loo, Lady Browne, whom
he often called his better-half, having left Twickenham, Walpole,
when at Strawberry Hill, began to look across the water for society.
He was attracted to Richmond by George Selwyn, who was now at times
domesticated there with the Duke of Queensberry, the “Old Q” of the
caricaturists. In December, 1786, Horace writes:
“I went yesterday to see the Duke of Queensberry’s palace at
Richmond, under the conduct of George Selwyn, the _concierge_.
You cannot imagine how noble it looks now all the Cornbury
pictures from Amesbury are hung up there. The great hall, the
great gallery, the eating-room, and the corridor, are covered
with whole and half-lengths of royal family, favourites,
ministers, peers, and judges, of the reign of Charles I.--not
one an original, I think, at least not one fine, yet altogether
they look very respectable; and the house is so handsome, and
the views so rich, and the day was so fine, that I could only
have been more pleased if (for half an hour) I could have seen
the real palace that once stood on that spot, and the persons
represented walking about!--A visionary holiday in old age,
though it has not the rapture of youth, is a sedate enjoyment
that is more sensible because one attends to it and reflects
upon it at the time; and as new tumults do not succeed, the
taste remains long in one’s memory’s mouth.”
Walpole was late this year in removing to Berkeley Square. The
political topic of the London season was the debates in the House of
Commons on the charges against Warren Hastings; the social topic, in
our author’s circle at any rate, appears to have been some theatrical
performances at the Duke of Richmond’s house in Whitehall. Horace seems
to have interested himself a good deal more in the latter subject than
the former. Lady Ossory having urged him to read a pamphlet in favour
of Mr. Hastings, he replies:
“The pamphlet I have read, Madam; but cannot tell you what
would have been my opinion of it, because my opinion was
influenced before I saw it. A lady-politician ordered me to
read it, and to admire it, as the _chef-d’œuvre_ of truth,
eloquence, wit, argument, and impartiality; and she assured
me that the _reasonings_ in it were unanswerable. I believe
she meant the _assertions_, for I know she uses those words as
synonymous. I promised to obey her, as I am sure that ladies
understand politics better than I do, and I hold it as a rule
of faith--
“That all that they admire is sweet,
And all is sense that they repeat.
“How much ready wit they have! I can give you an instance,
Madam, that I heard last night. After the late execution of
the _eighteen_ malefactors, a female was hawking an account of
them, but called them _nineteen_. A gentleman said to her, ‘Why
do you say _nineteen_? there were but _eighteen_ hanged.’ She
replied, ‘Sir, I did not know _you_ had been reprieved.’”
A week later, he writes again:
“Berkeley Square, Feb. 9, 1787.
“Though I sigh for your Ladyship’s coming to town, I do not
know whether I shall not be a loser, for what news don’t you
send me? That Lord Salisbury is a poet is nothing to your
intelligence that _I_ am going to turn player; nay, perhaps
I should, if I were not too young for the company!--You tell
me, too, that I snub and sneer; I protest, I thought I was the
snubee.…
“For sneering, Heaven help me! I was guiltless. Every day I
meet with red-hot politicians in petticoats, and told your
Ladyship how I had been schooled by one of them, and how docile
I was. If you yourself have any zeal for making converts, I
should be very ready to be a proselyte, if I could get anything
by it. It is very creditable, honourable, and fashionable; but,
alas! I am so insignificant that I fear nobody would buy me;
and one should look sillily to put one’s self up to sale and
not find a purchaser.
“In short, I doubt I shall never make my fortune by turning
courtier or comedian; and therefore I may as well adhere to
my old principles, as I have always done, since you yourself,
Madam, would not be flattered in a convert that nobody would
take off your hands. If you could bring over Mr. Sheridan, he
would do something: he talked for five hours and a half on
Wednesday, and turned everybody’s head. One heard everybody
in the streets raving on the wonders of that speech; for my
part, I cannot believe it was so supernatural as they say--do
you believe it was, Madam? I will go to my oracle, who told
me of the marvels of the pamphlet, which assures us that Mr.
Hastings is a prodigy of virtue and abilities; and, as you
think so too, how should such a fellow as Sheridan, who has no
diamonds to bestow, fascinate all the world?--Yet witchcraft,
no doubt, there has been, for when did simple eloquence ever
convince a majority? Mr. Pitt and 174 other persons found Mr.
Hastings guilty last night,[105] and only sixty-eight remained
thinking with _the pamphlet_ and your Ladyship, that he is as
white as snow. Well, at least there is a new crime, sorcery, to
charge on the Opposition! and, till they are cleared of that
charge, I will never say a word in their favour, nor think on
politics more, which I would not have mentioned but in answer
to your Ladyship’s questions; and therefore I hope we shall
drop the subject, and meet soon in Grosvenor Place in a perfect
neutrality of good humour.”
His remarks on the Duke’s Theatre are contained in the following
letter, written after his early return to Twickenham.
“Strawberry Hill, June 14, 1787.
“Though your Ladyship _gave me law_ (a very proper synonyme for
delay), I should have answered your letter incontinently, but I
have had what is called a _blight_ in one of my eyes, and for
some days was forced to lie fallow, neither reading nor writing
a line; which is a little uncomfortable when quite alone. I
do begin to creep about my house, but have not recovered my
feet enough to compass the whole circuit of my garden. Monday
last was pleasant, and Tuesday very warm; but we are relapsed
into our east windhood, which has reigned ever since I have
been here for this _green winter_, which, I presume, is the
highest title due to this season, which in southern climes is
positive _summer_, a name imported by our travellers, with
grapes, peaches, and tuberoses. However, most of my senses
have enjoyed themselves--my sight with verdure, my smell by
millions of honeysuckles, my hearing by nightingales, and my
feeling with good fires: tolerable luxury for an old cavalier
in the north of Europe! Semiramis of Russia is not of my taste,
or she would not travel half round the arctic circle; unless
she means to conquer the Turks, and transfer the seat of her
empire to Constantinople, like its founder. The ghost of Irene
will be mighty glad to see her there, though a little surprised
that the Grand Duke, her son, is still alive. I hear she has
carried her grandchildren with her as hostages, or she might be
dethroned, and not hear of it for three months.
“I am very far from tired, Madam, of encomiums on the
performance at Richmond House, but I, by no means, agree with
the criticism on it that you quote, and which, I conclude,
was written by some player, from envy. Who should act genteel
comedy perfectly, but people of fashion that have sense? Actors
and actresses can only guess at the tone of high life, and
can_not_ be inspired with it. Why are there so few genteel
comedies, but because most comedies are written by men not of
that sphere? Etherege, Congreve, Vanbrugh, and Cibber wrote
genteel comedy, because they lived in the best company; and
Mrs. Oldfield played it so well, because she not only followed,
but often set, the fashion. General Burgoyne has written the
best modern comedy, for the same reason; and Miss Farren[106]
is as excellent as Mrs. Oldfield, because she has lived with
the best style of men in England: whereas Mrs. Abington
can never go beyond _Lady Teazle_, which is a second-rate
character, and that rank of women are always aping women of
fashion, without arriving at the style. Farquhar’s plays talk
the language of a marching regiment in country quarters:
Wycherley, Dryden, Mrs. Centlivre, etc., wrote as if they had
only lived in the ‘Rose Tavern;’[107] but then the Court lived
in Drury Lane, too, and Lady Dorchester and Nell Gwyn were
equally good company. The Richmond Theatre, I imagine, will
take root. I supped with the Duke at Mrs. Damer’s, the night
before I left London, and they were talking of improvements on
_the local_, as the French would say.”
A few weeks later, he has dismissed the talk of London, and is occupied
with his neighbours on the Thames. The following is a letter to Lord
Strafford:
“Strawberry Hill, July 28, 1787.
“Saint Swithin is no friend to correspondence, my dear Lord.
There is not only a great sameness in his own proceedings, but
he makes everybody else dull--I mean in the country, where one
frets at its raining every day and all day. In town he is no
more minded than the proclamation against vice and immorality.
Still, though he has all the honours of the quarantine, I
believed it often rained for forty days long before St. Swithin
was born, if ever born he was; and the proverb was coined
and put under his patronage, because people observed that it
frequently does rain for forty days together at this season.
I remember Lady Suffolk telling me, that Lord Dysart’s great
meadow at Ham had never been mowed but once in forty years
without rain. I said, ‘All that that proved was, that rain was
good for hay,’ as I am persuaded the climate of a country and
its productions are suited to each other. Nay, rain is good for
haymakers too, who get more employment the oftener the hay is
made over again. I do not know who is the saint that presides
over thunder; but he has made an unusual quantity in this chill
summer, and done a great deal of serious mischief, though not a
fiftieth part of what Lord George Gordon did seven years ago,
and happily he is fled.
“Our little part of the world has been quiet as usual. The Duke
of Queensberry has given a sumptuous dinner to the Princesse
de Lamballe--_et voilà tout_. I never saw her, not even in
France. I have no particular _penchant_ for sterling princes
and princesses, much less for those of French plate.
“The only entertaining thing I can tell your Lordship from our
district is, that old Madam French, who lives close by the
bridge at Hampton Court, where, between her and the Thames,
she has nothing but one grass-plot of the width of her house,
has paved that whole plot with black and white marble in
diamonds, exactly like the floor of a church; and this curious
metamorphosis of a garden into a pavement has cost her three
hundred and forty pounds:--a tarpaulin she might have had for
some shillings, which would have looked as well, and might
easily have been removed. To be sure, this exploit, and Lord
Dudley’s obelisk _below_ a hedge, with his canal at right
angles with the Thames, and a sham bridge no broader than that
of a violin, and _parallel_ to the river, are not preferable to
the monsters in clipt yews of our ancestors. On the contrary,
Mrs. Walsingham is making her house at Ditton (now baptized
Boyle Farm[108]) very orthodox. Her daughter Miss Boyle, who
has real genius, has carved three tablets in marble with boys,
designed by herself. Those sculptures are for a chimney-piece;
and she is painting panels in grotesque for the library, with
pilasters of glass in black and gold. Miss Crewe, who has taste
too, has decorated a room for her mother’s house at Richmond,
which was Lady Margaret Compton’s, in a very pretty manner.
How much more amiable the old women of the next age will be,
than most of those we remember, who used to tumble at once from
gallantry to devout scandal and cards, and revenge on the young
of their own sex the desertion of ours! Now they are ingenious,
they will not want amusement.”
In the autumn, he pays a visit to Lord North:
“I dined last Monday at Bushy (for you know I have more
_penchant_ for Ministers that are out than when they are in)
and never saw a more interesting scene. Lord North’s spirits,
good humour, wit, sense, drollery, are as perfect as ever--the
unremitting attention of Lady North and his children, most
touching. Mr. North leads him about, Miss North sits constantly
by him, carves meat, watches his every motion, scarce puts a
bit into her own lips; and if one cannot help commending her,
she colours with modesty and sorrow till the tears gush into
her eyes. If ever loss of sight could be compensated, it is by
so affectionate a family.”
Not long after this, Walpole repeats a good-humoured jest of the blind
old man on receiving a call from his _quondam_ opponent, Colonel Barré,
whose sight also was nearly gone. Lord North said: “Colonel Barré,
nobody will suspect us of insincerity, if we say that we should always
be overjoyed to see each other.”
With the return of winter, the theatre comes up again. There was a
stage at Ampthill as well as at Whitehall:
“Berkeley Square, Jan. 15, 1788.
“All joy to your Ladyship on the success of your theatric
campaign. I do think the representation of plays as
entertaining and ingenious, as choosing king and queen, and
the gambols and mummeries of our ancestors at Christmas; or
as making one’s neighbours and all their servants drunk, and
sending them home ten miles in the dark with the chance of
breaking their necks by some comical overturn. I wish I could
have been one of the audience; but, alas! I am like the African
lamb, and can only feed on the grass and herbs that grow within
my reach.
“I can make no returns yet from the theatre at Richmond House;
the Duke and Duchess do not come till the birthday, and I have
been at no more rehearsals, being satisfied with two of the
play. Prologue or epilogue there is to be none, as neither the
plays nor the performers, in general, are new. The ‘Jealous
Wife’ is to succeed for the exhibition of Mrs. Hobart, who
could have no part in ‘The Wonder.’
“My histrionic acquaintance spreads. I supped at Lady Dorothy
Hotham’s with Mrs. Siddons, and have visited and been visited
by her, and have seen and liked her much, yes, very much, in
the passionate scenes of ‘Percy;’ but I do not admire her in
cool declamation, and find her voice very hollow and defective.
I asked her in which part she would most wish me to see her?
She named Portia in the ‘Merchant of Venice;’ but I begged to
be excused. With all my enthusiasm for Shakespeare, it is one
of his plays that I like the least. The story of the caskets
is silly, and, except the character of Shylock, I see nothing
beyond the attainment of a mortal: Euripides, or Racine, or
Voltaire, might have written all the rest. Moreover, Mrs.
Siddons’s warmest devotees do not hold her above a demigoddess
in comedy. I have chosen ‘Athenais,’ in which she is to appear
soon; her scorn is admirable.…
“Puppet-shows are coming on, the birth-day, the Parliament, and
the trial of Hastings and his imp, Elijah. They will fill the
town, I suppose.”
Walpole was as severe on professional authors as on professional
actors. “Except,” he says, “for such a predominant genius as
Shakespeare and Milton, I hold authors cheap enough: what merit is
there in pains, and study, and application, compared with the extempore
abilities of such men as Mr. Fox, Mr. Sheridan, or Mr. Pitt?” But he
made a further exception in favour of Gibbon. The following extract,
besides an estimate of Gibbon’s History, contains a reference to the
celebrated Begum Speech delivered by Sheridan in Westminster Hall on
the trial of Warren Hastings:
“I finished Mr. Gibbon a full fortnight ago, and was extremely
pleased. It is a most wonderful mass of information, not only
on history, but almost on all the ingredients of history,
as war, government, commerce, coin, and what not. If it has
a fault, it is in embracing too much, and consequently in
not detailing enough, and in striding backwards and forwards
from one set of princes to another, and from one subject
to another; so that, without much historic knowledge, and
without much memory, and much method in one’s memory, it is
almost impossible not to be sometimes bewildered: nay, his own
impatience to tell what he knows, makes the author, though
commonly so explicit, not perfectly clear in his expressions.
The last chapter of the fourth volume, I own, made me recoil,
and I could scarcely push through it. So far from being
Catholic or heretic, I wished Mr. Gibbon had never heard of
Monophysites, Nestorians, or any such fools! But the sixth
volume made ample amends; Mahomet and the Popes were gentlemen
and good company. I abominate fractions of theology and
reformation.
“Mr. Sheridan, I hear, did not quite satisfy the passionate
expectation that had been raised; but it was impossible he
could, when people had worked themselves into an enthusiasm
of offering fifty--ay, _fifty_ guineas for a ticket to hear
him. Well, we are sunk and deplorable in many points, yet not
absolutely gone, when history and eloquence throw out such
shoots! I thought I had outlived my country; I am glad not to
leave it desperate!”
The next letter contains further references to the Begum Speech. It
is addressed to Lord Strafford, and is one of the latest of Walpole’s
letters to that nobleman which have been preserved:
“Strawberry Hill, Tuesday night, June 17, 1788.
“I guess, my dear Lord, and only guess, that you are arrived
at Wentworth Castle. If you are not, my letter will lose none
of its bloom by waiting for you; for I have nothing fresh to
tell you, and only write because you enjoined it. I settled
in my Liliputian towers but this morning. I wish people would
come into the country on May-day, and fix in town the first
of November. But as they will not, I have made up my mind; and
having so little time left, I prefer London, when my friends
and society are in it, to living here alone, or with the weird
sisters of Richmond and Hampton. I had additional reason now,
for the streets are as green as the fields: we are burnt to the
bone, and have not a lock of hay to cover our nakedness: oats
are so dear, that I suppose they will soon be eaten at Brooks’s
and fashionable tables as a rarity. Though not resident till
now, I have flitted backwards and forwards, and last Friday
came hither to look for a minute at a ball at Mrs. Walsingham’s
at Ditton; which would have been very pretty, for she had stuck
coloured lamps in the hair of all her trees and bushes, if the
east wind had not danced a reel all the time by the side of the
river.
“Mr. Conway’s play,[109] of which your Lordship has seen
some account in the papers, has succeeded delightfully,
both in representation and applause. The language is most
genteel, though translated from verse; and both prologue and
epilogue are charming. The former was delivered most justly
and admirably by Lord Derby, and the latter with inimitable
spirit and grace by Mrs. Damer. Mr. Merry and Mrs. Bruce played
excellently too. But General Conway, Mrs. Damer, and everybody
else are drowned by Mr. Sheridan, whose renown has engrossed
all Fame’s tongues and trumpets. Lord Townshend said he should
be sorry were he forced to give a vote directly on Hastings,
before he had time to cool; and one of the Peers saying the
speech had not made the same impression on him, the Marquis
replied, A seal might be finely cut, and yet not be in fault
for making a bad impression.
“I have, you see, been forced to send your Lordship what scraps
I brought from town. The next four months, I doubt, will reduce
me to my old sterility; for I cannot retail French Gazettes,
though as a good Englishman bound to hope they will contain
a civil war. I care still less about the double imperial
campaign, only hoping that the poor dear Turks will heartily
beat both Emperor and Empress. If the first Ottomans could be
punished, they deserve it, but the present possessors have as
good a prescription on their side as any people in Europe.
We ourselves are Saxons, Danes, Normans; our neighbours are
Franks, not Gauls; who the rest are, Goths, Gepidæ, Heruli, Mr.
Gibbon knows; and the Dutch usurped the estates of herrings,
turbots, and other marine indigenæ. Still, though I do not wish
the hair of a Turk’s beard to be hurt, I do not say that it
would not be amusing to have Constantinople taken, merely as
a lusty event; for neither could I live to see Athens revive,
nor have I much faith in two such bloody-minded vultures, cock
and hen, as Catherine and Joseph, conquering for the benefit of
humanity; nor does my Christianity admire the propagation of
the Gospel by the mouth of cannon. What desolation of peasants
and their families by the episodes of forage and quarters! Oh!
I wish Catherine and Joseph were brought to Westminster Hall
and worried by Sheridan! I hope, too, that the poor Begums are
alive to hear of his speech: it will be some comfort, though I
doubt nobody thinks of restoring them a quarter of a lac!”
We must now find place for a letter to Miss More:
“Strawberry Hill, July 4, 1788.
“I am soundly rejoiced, my dear Madam, that the present summer
is more favourable to me than the last; and that, instead of
not answering my letters in three months, you open the campaign
first. May not I flatter myself that it is a symptom of your
being in better health? I wish, however, you had told me so in
positive words, and that all your complaints have left you.
Welcome as is your letter, it would have been ten times more
welcome bringing me that assurance; for don’t think I forget
how ill you was last winter. As letters, you say, now keep
their coaches, I hope those from Bristol will call often at my
door.[110] I promise you I will never be denied to them.
“No botanist am I; nor wished to learn from _you_, of all the
Muses, that _piping_ has a new signification. I had rather that
_you_ handled an oaten pipe than a carnation one; yet setting
layers, I own, is preferable to reading newspapers, one of the
chronical maladies of this age. Everybody reads them, nay,
quotes them, though everybody knows they are stuffed with lies
or blunders. How should it be otherwise? If any extraordinary
event happens, who but must hear it before it descends through
a coffee-house to the runner of a daily paper? They who are
always wanting news, are wanting to hear they don’t know what.
A lower species, indeed, is that of the scribes you mention,
who every night compose a journal for the satisfaction of such
_illiterati_, and feed them with all the vices and misfortunes
of every private family; nay, they now call it a _duty_
to publish all those calamities which decency to wretched
relations used in compassion to suppress, I mean self-murder in
particular. Mr. Hesse’s was detailed at length; and to-day that
of Lord Saye and Sele. The pretence is, _in terrorem_, like the
absurd stake and highway of our ancestors; as if there were a
precautionary potion for madness, or the stigma of a newspaper
were more dreadful than death. Daily journalists, to be sure,
are most respectable magistrates! Yes, much like the cobblers
that Cromwell made peers.
“I do lament your not going to Mr. Conway’s play: both the
author and actors deserved such an auditor as you, and you
deserved to hear them. However, I do not pity _good_ people who
out of virtue lose or miss any pleasures. Those pastimes fleet
as fast as those of the wicked; but, when gone, you saints can
sit down and feast on your self-denial, and drink bumpers of
satisfaction to the health of your own merit. So truly I don’t
pity you.
“You say you hear no news, yet you quote Mr. Topham;[111]
therefore why should I tell you that the King is going to
Cheltenham? or that the Baccelli lately danced at the Opera at
Paris with a blue bandeau on her forehead, inscribed, _Honi
soit qui mal y pense_!
“Well! would we committed nothing but follies! What do we not
commit when the abolition of slavery hitches! Adieu!
“Though Cato died, though Tully spoke,
Though Brutus dealt the godlike stroke,
Yet perish’d fated Rome.
“_You_ have written; and I fear that even, if Mr. Sheridan
speaks, trade, the modern religion, will predominate. Adieu!”
Our next extract contains an account of an incident which proved more
fortunate for the writer than anything that happened to him during
the remainder of his life. It is from a letter to Lady Ossory, dated
Strawberry Hill, October 11, 1788. Horace writes:
“I am sorry, for the third time of this letter, that I have
no new village anecdotes to send your Ladyship, since they
divert you for a moment. I have one, but some months old. Lady
Charleville, my neighbour, told me three months ago, that,
having some company with her, one of them had been to see
Strawberry. ‘Pray,’ said another, ‘who is that Mr. Walpole?’
‘Who!’ cried a third, ‘don’t you know the great epicure, Mr.
Walpole?’ ‘Pho!’ said the first, ‘great epicure! you mean the
antiquarian.’ There, Madam, surely this anecdote may take its
place in the chapter of local fame. If I have picked up no
recent anecdotes on our Common, I have made a much more, to
me, precious acquisition. It is the acquaintance of two young
ladies of the name of Berry, whom I first saw last winter,
and who accidentally took a house here with their father for
the season. Their story is singular enough to entertain you.
The grandfather,[112] a Scot, had a large estate in his own
country, £5,000 a year it is said; and a circumstance I shall
tell you makes it probable. The oldest son married for love a
woman with no fortune. The old man was enraged, and would not
see him. His wife died and left these two young ladies. The
grandfather wished for an heir male, and pressed the widower
to remarry, but could not prevail; the son declaring he would
consecrate himself to his daughters and their education.
The old man did not break with him again, but, much worse,
totally disinherited him, and left all to his second son, who
very handsomely gave up £800 a year to his elder brother. Mr.
Berry has since carried his daughters for two or three years
to France and Italy, and they are returned the best-informed
and the most perfect creatures I ever saw at their age. They
are exceedingly sensible, entirely natural and unaffected,
frank, and, being qualified to talk on any subject, nothing is
so easy and agreeable as their conversation, nor more apposite
than their answers and observations. The eldest, I discovered
by chance, understands Latin and is a perfect Frenchwoman in
her language. The younger draws charmingly, and has copied
admirably Lady Di’s gipsies, which I lent, though for the first
time of her attempting colours. They are of pleasing figures.
Mary, the eldest, sweet, with fine dark eyes, that are very
lively when she speaks, with a symmetry of face that is the
more interesting from being pale; Agnes, the younger, has an
agreeable sensible countenance, hardly to be called handsome,
but almost. She is less animated than Mary, but seems, out of
deference to her sister, to speak seldomer, for they dote on
each other, and Mary is always praising her sister’s talents.
I must even tell you they dress within the bounds of fashion,
though fashionably; but without the excrescences and balconies
with which modern hoydens overwhelm and barricade their
persons. In short, good sense, information, simplicity, and
ease characterise the Berrys; and this is not particularly
mine, who am apt to be prejudiced, but the universal voice of
all who know them. The first night I met them I would not be
acquainted with them, having heard so much in their praise that
I concluded they would be all pretension. The second time, in a
very small company, I sat next to Mary, and found her an angel
both inside and out. Now, I do not know which I like best;
except Mary’s face, which is formed for a sentimental novel,
but it is ten times fitter for a fifty times better thing,
genteel comedy. This delightful family comes to me almost every
Sunday evening, as our region is too _proclamatory_ to play at
cards on the seventh day. I forgot to tell you that Mr. Berry
is a little merry man, with a round face, and you would not
suspect him of so much feeling and attachment. I make no excuse
for such minute details; for, if your Ladyship insists on
hearing the humours of my district, you must for once indulge
me with sending you two pearls that I found in my path.”
At the date of the above extract, Mary Berry was in her twenty-sixth
year, Agnes Berry in her twenty-fifth. The notice taken by Walpole of
these ladies gave them a position in the best London society, which
they enjoyed for upwards of sixty years; but this patronage, and any
other benefits which he bestowed upon them, were much more than repaid
by the grateful attention with which they sacrificed themselves to
promote the comfort of his last years. The new acquaintance advanced
rapidly. Here is one of the earliest of Walpole’s letters to the
sisters which has been published. Like many others of the series, it is
addressed to the two jointly.
“February 2, 17-71[113] [1789].
“I am sorry, in the sense of that word before it meant, like a
Hebrew word, glad or sorry, that I am engaged this evening; and
I am at your command on Tuesday, as it is always my inclination
to be. It is a misfortune that words are become so much the
current coin of society, that, like King William’s shillings,
they have no impression left; they are so smooth, that they
mark no more to whom they first belonged than to whom they
do belong, and are not worth even the twelvepence into which
they may be changed: but if they mean too little, they may
seem to mean too much too, especially when an old man (who is
often synonymous for a miser) parts with them. I am afraid of
protesting how much I delight in your society, lest I should
seem to affect being gallant; but if two negatives make an
affirmative, why may not two ridicules compose one piece of
sense? and therefore, as I am in love with you both, I trust it
is a proof of the good sense of your devoted H. Walpole.”
A few months later we have the following letter to Miss More:
“Strawberry Hill, June 23, 1789.
“MADAM HANNAH,
“You are an errant reprobate, and grow wickeder and wickeder
every day. You deserve to be treated like a _nègre_; and
your favourite Sunday, to which you are so partial, that you
treat the other poor six days of the week as if they had no
souls to be saved, should, if I could have my will, ‘shine no
Sabbath-day for you.’ Now, don’t simper, and look as innocent
as if virtue would not melt in your mouth. Can you deny the
following charges?--I lent you the ‘Botanic Garden,’ and you
returned it without writing a syllable, or saying where you
were, or whither you was going; I suppose for fear I should
know how to direct to you. Why, if I did send a letter after
you, could not you keep it three months without an answer, as
you did last year?
“In the next place, you and your _nine_ accomplices, who, by
the way, are too good in keeping you company, have clubbed the
prettiest Poem imaginable,[114] and communicated it to Mrs.
Boscawen, with injunctions not to give a copy of it; I suppose
because you are ashamed of having written a panegyric. Whenever
you _do_ compose a satire, you are ready enough to publish it;
at least, whenever you do, you will din one to death with it.
But now, mind your perverseness: that very pretty novel poem,
and I must own it is charming, have you gone and spoiled,
flying in the faces of your best friends the Muses, and keeping
no _measures_ with them. I’ll be shot if they dictated two of
the best lines with two syllables too much in each--nay, you
have weakened one of them,
“‘Ev’n Gardiner’s mind’
is far more expressive than _steadfast_ Gardiner’s; and,
as Mrs. Boscawen says, whoever knows anything of Gardiner,
could not want that superfluous epithet; and whoever does
not, would not be the wiser for your foolish insertion--Mrs.
Boscawen did not call it foolish, but I do. The second line, as
Mesdemoiselles the Muses handed it to you, Miss, was,
“‘Have all be free and saved--’
not, ‘All be free and all be saved:’ the second _all be_ is a
most unnecessary tautology. The poem was perfect and faultless,
if you could have let it alone. I wonder how your mischievous
flippancy could help maiming that most new and beautiful
expression, ‘sponge of sins;’ I should not have been surprised,
as you love verses too full of feet, if you had changed it to
‘that scrubbing-brush of sins.’
“Well! I will say no more now: but if you do not order me a
copy of ‘Bonner’s Ghost’ incontinently, never dare to look my
printing-house in the face again. Or come, I’ll tell you what;
I will forgive all your enormities if you will let me print
your poem. I like to filch a little immortality out of others,
and the Strawberry press could never have a better opportunity.
I will not haggle for the public; I will be content with
printing only two hundred copies, of which you shall have
half and I half. It shall cost you nothing but a yes. I only
propose this in case you do not mean to print it yourself.
Tell me sincerely which you like. But as to not printing it at
all, charming and unexceptionable as it is, you cannot be so
preposterous.
“I by no means have a thought of detracting from your own
share in your own poem; but, as I do suspect that it caught
some inspiration from your perusal of ‘The Botanic Garden,’ so
I hope you will discover that _my_ style is much improved by
having lately studied ‘Bruce’s Travels.’ There I dipped, and
not in St. Giles’s Pound, where one would think this author had
been educated. Adieu! Your friend, or mortal foe, as you behave
on the present occasion.”
Before the date of the last, the Misses Berry had set out on a summer
excursion. The following is in answer to a letter from the elder:
“Strawberry Hill, June 30, 1789.
“Were there any such thing as sympathy at the distance of two
hundred miles, you would have been in a mightier panic than I
was; for, on Saturday se’nnight, going to open the glass case
in the Tribune, my foot caught in the carpet, and I fell with
my whole weight (_si_ weight _y a_) against the corner of the
marble altar on my side, and bruised the muscles so badly, that
for two days I could not move without screaming. I am convinced
I should have broken a rib, but that I fell on the cavity
whence two of my ribs were removed that are gone to Yorkshire.
I am much better both of my bruise and of my lameness, and
shall be ready to dance at my own wedding when my wives return.
And now to answer your letter.
“If you grow tired of the ‘Arabian Nights,’ you have no more
taste than Bishop Atterbury, who huffed Pope for sending him
them (or the ‘Persian Tales’), and fancied he liked Virgil
better, who had no more imagination than Dr. Akenside. Read
‘Sinbad the Sailor’s Voyages,’ and you will be sick of Æneas’s.
What woful invention were the nasty poultry that spoiled
his dinner, and ships on fire turned into Nereids! A barn
metamorphosed into a cascade in a pantomime is full as sublime
an effort of genius. I do not know whether the ‘Arabian Nights’
are of Oriental origin or not: I should think not, because I
never saw any other Oriental composition that was not bombast
without genius, and figurative without nature; like an Indian
screen, where you see little men on the foreground, and larger
men hunting tigers above in the air, which they take for
perspective. I do not think the Sultaness’s narratives very
natural or very probable, but there is a wildness in them that
captivates. However, if you could wade through two octavos[115]
of Dame Piozzi’s _though’s_ and _so’s_ and _I trow’s_, and
cannot listen to seven volumes of Scheherezade’s narrations, I
will sue for a divorce _in foro Parnassi_, and Boccalini shall
be my proctor. The cause will be a counterpart to the sentence
of the Lacedæmonian, who was condemned for breach of the peace,
by saying in three words what he might have said in two.
“So, you was not quite satisfied, though you ought to have been
transported, with King’s College Chapel, because it has no
aisles, like every common cathedral. I suppose you would object
to a bird of paradise, because it has no legs, but shoots to
heaven in a trail, and does not rest on earth. Criticism and
comparison spoil many tastes. You should admire all bold and
unique essays that resemble nothing else; the ‘Botanic Garden,’
the ‘Arabian Nights,’ and King’s Chapel are above all rules:
and how preferable is what no one can imitate, to all that is
imitated even from the best models! Your partiality to the
pageantry of popery I do approve, and I doubt whether the world
would not be a loser (in its visionary enjoyments) by the
extinction of that religion, as it was by the decay of chivalry
and the proscription of the heathen deities. Reason has no
invention; and as plain sense will never be the legislator of
human affairs, it is fortunate when taste happens to be regent.”
During the absence of his young favourites, he amuses himself with
visiting his neighbours, and grumbling at his “customers,” as he called
the strangers who came to view his villa and grounds:
“Richmond is in the first request this summer. Mrs. Bouverie
is settled there with a large court. The Sheridans are there,
too, and the Bunburys. I have been once with the first; with
the others I am not acquainted. I go once or twice a week
to George Selwyn late in the evening, when he comes in from
walking:--about as often to Mrs. Ellis here, and to Lady
Cecilia Johnston at Hampton; but all together cannot contribute
to an entertaining letter, and it is odd to say that, though
my house is all the morning full of company, nobody lives so
much alone. I have already this season had between seventy and
fourscore companies to see my house; and half my time passes
in writing tickets or excuses. I wish I could think as an old
sexton did at King’s College. One of the fellows told him he
must get a great deal of money by showing it: ‘Oh, no! master,’
replied he; ‘everybody has seen it now.’ _My_ companies, it
seems, are more prolific, and every set begets one or two more.”
About the same date, he writes to Mary and Agnes:
“Strawberry Hill, Thursday evening, Aug. 27, 1789.
“I jumped for joy; that is, my heart did, which is all the
remains of me that is _in statu jumpante_, at the receipt
of your letter this morning, which tells me you approve
of the house at Teddington. How kind you was to answer so
incontinently! I believe you borrowed the best steed from the
races. I have sent to the landlord to come to me to-morrow:
but I could not resist beginning my letter to-night, as I am
at home alone, with a little pain in my left wrist; but the
right one has no brotherly feeling for it, and would not be
put off so. You ask how you have deserved such attentions?
Why, by deserving them; by every kind of merit, and by that
superlative one to me, your submitting to throw away so much
time on a forlorn antique; you two, who, without specifying
particulars, (and you must at least be conscious that you are
not two frights) might expect any fortune and distinctions, and
do delight all companies. On which side lies the wonder? Ask me
no more such questions, or I will cram you with reasons.…
“Friday.
“Well! I have seen him, and nobody was ever so accommodating!
He is as courteous as a candidate for a county. You may stay
in his house till Christmas if you please, and shall pay but
twenty pounds; and if more furniture is wanting, it shall be
supplied.”
“Don’t bring me a pair of scissors from Sheffield. I am
determined nothing shall cut our loves, though I should live
out the rest of Methusalem’s term, as you kindly wish, and as
I can believe, though you are my wives; for I am persuaded my
Agnes wishes so too.--Don’t you?”
The French Revolution was now in full progress: the Bastile had
been stormed and demolished; anarchy reigned in Paris; châteaux
in the provinces were being plundered and burnt by the peasants;
refugees, in terrified crowds, were pouring over to England. Some of
the exiles presently found their way into Walpole’s neighbourhood.
“Madame de Boufflers,” he tells Lady Ossory, “and the Comtesse Emilie,
her daughter-in-law, I hear, are come to London; and Woronzow, the
Russian Minister, who has a house at Richmond, is to lend it to her
for the winter, as her fortune has received some considerable blow in
the present commotions.” Besides these foreigners, other important
personages had come or were coming into the district. The Duke of
Clarence had a house in the middle of Richmond “with nothing but
a green short apron to the river, a situation only fit for an old
gentlewoman who has put out her knee-pans and loves cards. The Prince
of Wales has taken a somewhat better place at Roehampton, and enters
upon it at Christmas.” “My Straw-Berries,” he adds, “are not yet
returned, but I expect them next week, and have found a house for them
at Teddington very near me.” A little later, he writes, “My neighbour,
the Duke of Clarence, is so popular, that if Richmond were a borough,
and he had not attained his title, but still retained his idea of
standing candidate, he would certainly be elected there. He pays his
bills regularly himself, locks up his doors at night, that his servants
may not stay out late, and never drinks but a few glasses of wine.
Though the value of crowns is mightily fallen of late at market, it
looks as if his Royal Highness thought they were still worth waiting
for; nay, it is said that he tells his brothers that he shall be king
before either--that is fair at least.”[116]
In July, 1790, Walpole is alarmed by the intelligence that the Berrys
have arranged to make a long visit to Italy. He writes to Miss Berry,
then at the sea with her sister:
“I feel all the kindness of your determination of coming
to Twickenham in August, and shall certainly say no more
against it, though I am certain that I shall count every day
that passes; and when _they are passed_, they will leave a
melancholy impression on Strawberry, that I had rather have
affixed to London. The two last summers were infinitely the
pleasantest I ever passed here, for I never before had an
agreeable neighbourhood. Still I loved the place, and had
no comparisons to draw. Now, the neighbourhood will remain,
and will appear ten times worse; with the aggravation of
remembering _two months_ that may have some transient roses,
but, I am sure, lasting thorns. You tell me I do not write with
my usual spirits: at least I will suppress, as much as I can,
the want of them, though I am a bad dissembler.”
The months pass, and we have the following farewell letter:
“Sunday, Oct. 10, 1790. The day of your departure.
“Is it possible to write to my beloved friends, and refrain
from speaking of my grief for losing you; though it is but the
continuation of what I have felt ever since I was stunned by
your intention of going abroad this autumn? Still I will not
tire you with it often. In happy days I smiled, and called you
my dear wives: now I can only think on you as darling children
of whom I am bereaved! As such I have loved and do love you;
and, charming as you both are, I have had no occasion to
remind myself that I am past seventy-three. Your hearts, your
understandings, your virtues, and the cruel injustice of your
fate,[117] have interested me in everything that concerns you;
and so far from having occasion to blush for any unbecoming
weakness, I am proud of my affection for you, and very proud of
your condescending to pass so many hours with a very old man,
when everybody admires you, and the most insensible allow that
your good sense and information (I speak of both) have formed
you to converse with the most intelligent of our sex as well as
your own; and neither can tax you with airs of pretension or
affectation. Your simplicity and natural ease set off all your
other merits--all these graces are lost to me, alas! when I
have no time to lose.
“Sensible as I am to my loss, it will occupy but part of my
thoughts, till I know you safely landed, and arrived safely
at Turin. Not till you are there, and I learn so, will my
anxiety subside and settle into steady, selfish sorrow. I
looked at every weathercock as I came along the road to-day,
and was happy to see everyone point north-east. May they do so
to-morrow!
“I found here the frame for Wolsey,[118] and to-morrow morning
Kirgate[119] will place him in it; and then I shall begin
pulling the little parlour to pieces, that it may be hung anew
to receive him. I have also obeyed Miss Agnes, though with
regret; for, on trying it, I found her Arcadia would fit the
place of the picture she condemned, which shall therefore be
hung in its room; though the latter should give way to nothing
else, nor shall be laid aside, but shall hang where I shall
see it almost as often. I long to hear that its dear paintress
is well; I thought her not at all so last night. You will tell
me the truth, though she in her own case, and in that alone,
allows herself mental reservation.
“Forgive me for writing nothing to-night but about you two and
myself. Of what can I have thought else? I have not spoken
to a single person but my own servants since we parted last
night. I found a message here from Miss Howe[120] to invite me
for this evening. Do you think I have not preferred staying
at home to write to you, as this must go to London to-morrow
morning by the coach to be ready for Tuesday’s post? My future
letters shall talk of other things, whenever I know anything
worth repeating; or perhaps any trifle, for I am determined
to forbid myself lamentations that would weary you; and the
frequency of my letters will prove there is no forgetfulness.
If I live to see you again, you will then judge whether I am
changed; but a friendship so rational and so pure as mine
is, and so equal for both, is not likely to have any of the
fickleness of youth, when it has none of its other ingredients.
It was a sweet consolation to the short time that I may have
left, to fall into such a society; no wonder then that I am
unhappy at that consolation being abridged. I pique myself on
no philosophy, but what a long use and knowledge of the world
had given me--the philosophy of indifference to most persons
and events. I do pique myself on not being ridiculous at this
very late period of my life; but when there is not a grain of
passion in my affection for you two, and when you both have
the good sense not to be displeased at my telling you so,
(though I hope you would have despised me for the contrary,) I
am not ashamed to say that your loss is heavy to me; and that
I am only reconciled to it by hoping that a winter in Italy,
and the journeys and sea air, will be very beneficial to two
constitutions so delicate as yours. Adieu! my dearest friends.
It would be tautology to subscribe a name to a letter, every
line of which would suit no other man in the world but the
writer.”