ARLINGTON STREET, _May_ 5, 1761.
We have lost a young genius, Sir William Williams; an express from
Belleisle, arrived this morning, brings nothing but his death. He was
shot very unnecessarily, riding too near a battery; in sum, he is a
sacrifice to his own rashness, and to ours. For what are we taking
Belleisle?[1] I rejoiced at the little loss we had on landing; for the
glory, I leave it the common council. I am very willing to leave London
to them too, and do pass half the week at Strawberry, where my two
passions, lilacs and nightingales, are in full bloom. I spent Sunday as
if it were Apollo's birthday; Gray and Mason were with me, and we
listened to the nightingales till one o'clock in the morning. Gray has
translated two noble incantations from the Lord knows who, a Danish
Gray, who lived the Lord knows when. They are to be enchased in a
history of English bards, which Mason and he are writing; but of which
the former has not written a word yet, and of which the latter, if he
rides Pegasus at his usual footpace, will finish the first page two
years hence.
[Footnote 1: Belleisle was of no value to us to keep; but Pitt sent an
expedition against it, that in any future treaty of peace he might be
able to exchange it for Minorca.]
But the true frantic Oestus resides at present with Mr. Hogarth; I went
t'other morning to see a portrait he is painting of Mr. Fox. Hogarth
told me he had promised, if Mr. Fox would sit as he liked, to make as
good a picture as Vandyke or Rubens could. I was silent--"Why now," said
he, "you think this very vain, but why should not one speak truth?" This
_truth_ was uttered in the face of his own Sigismonda, which is exactly
a maudlin street-walker, tearing off the trinkets that her keeper had
given her, to fling at his head. She has her father's picture in a
bracelet on her arm, and her fingers are bloody with the heart, as if
she had just bought a sheep's pluck in St. James's Market. As I was
going, Hogarth put on a very grave face, and said, "Mr. Walpole, I want
to speak to you." I sat down, and said, I was ready to receive his
commands. For shortness, I will mark this wonderful dialogue by initial
letters.
H. I am told you are going to entertain the town with something in our
way. W. Not very soon, Mr. Hogarth. H. I wish you would let me have it,
to correct; I should be very sorry to have you expose yourself to
censure; we painters must know more of those things than other people.
W. Do you think nobody understands painting but painters? H. Oh! so far
from it, there's Reynolds, who certainly has genius; why, but t'other
day he offered a hundred pounds for a picture, that I would not hang in
my cellar; and indeed, to say truth, I have generally found, that
persons who had studied painting least were the best judges of it; but
what I particularly wished to say to you was about Sir James Thornhill
(you know he married Sir James's daughter): I would not have you say
anything against him; there was a book published some time ago, abusing
him, and it gave great offence. He was the first that attempted
_history_ in England, and, I assure you, some Germans have said that he
was a very great painter. W. My work will go no lower than the year one
thousand seven hundred, and I really have not considered whether Sir J.
Thornhill will come within my plan or not; if he does, I fear you and I
shall not agree upon his merits. H. I wish you would let me correct it;
besides, I am writing something of the same kind myself; I should be
sorry we should clash. W. I believe it is not much known what my work
is, very few persons have seen it. H. Why, it is a critical history of
painting, is not it? W. No, it is an antiquarian history of it in
England; I bought Mr. Vertue's MSS., and, I believe, the work will not
give much offence; besides, if it does, I cannot help it; when I publish
anything, I give it to the world to think of it as they please. H. Oh!
if it is an antiquarian work, we shall not clash; mine is a critical
work; I don't know whether I shall ever publish it. It is rather an
apology for painters. I think it is owing to the good sense of the
English that they have not painted better. W. My dear Mr. Hogarth, I
must take my leave of you, you now grow too wild--and I left him. If I
had stayed, there remained nothing but for him to bite me. I give you my
honour this conversation is literal, and, perhaps, as long as you have
known Englishmen and painters, you never met with anything so
distracted. I had consecrated a line to his genius (I mean, for wit) in
my Preface; I shall not erase it; but I hope nobody will ask me if he is
not mad. Adieu!
_INTENDED MARRIAGE OF THE KING--BATTLES IN GERMANY--CAPTURE OF
PONDICHERRY--BURKE._