ARLINGTON STREET, _Feb._ 27, 1770.
It is very lucky, seeing how much of the tiger enters into the human
composition, that there should be a good dose of the monkey too. If
Aesop had not lived so many centuries before the introduction of
masquerades and operas, he would certainly have anticipated my
observation, and worked it up into a capital fable. As we still trade
upon the stock of the ancients, we seldom deal in any other manufacture;
and, though nature, after new combinations, lets forth new
characteristics, it is very rarely that they are added to the old fund;
else how could so striking a remark have escaped being made, as mine, on
the joint ingredients of tiger and monkey? In France the latter
predominates, in England the former; but, like Orozmades and
Arimanius,[1] they get the better by turns. The bankruptcy in France,
and the rigours of the new Comptroller-General, are half forgotten, in
the expectation of a new opera at the new theatre. Our civil war has
been lulled asleep by a Subscription Masquerade, for which the House of
Commons literally adjourned yesterday. Instead of Fairfaxes and
Cromwells, we have had a crowd of Henry the Eighths, Wolseys, Vandykes,
and Harlequins; and because Wilkes was not mask enough, we had a man
dressed like him, with a visor, in imitation of his squint, and a Cap of
Liberty on a pole. In short, sixteen or eighteen young lords have given
the town a Masquerade; and politics, for the last fortnight, were forced
to give way to habit-makers. The ball was last night at Soho; and, if
possible, was more magnificent than the King of Denmark's. The Bishops
opposed: he of London formally remonstrated to the King, who did not
approve it, but could not help him. The consequence was, that four
divine vessels belonging to the holy fathers, alias their wives, were at
this Masquerade. Monkey again! A fair widow,[2] who once bore my whole
name, and now bears half of it, was there, with one of those whom the
newspapers call _great personages_--he dressed like Edward the Fourth,
she like Elizabeth Woodville,[3] in grey and pearls, with a black veil.
Methinks it was not very difficult to find out the meaning of those
masks.
[Footnote 1: "_Orozmades and Arimanius._" In the Persian theology
Orozmades and Ahriman are the good and bad angels. In Scott's "Talisman"
the disguised Saracen (Saladin) invokes Ahriman as "the dark spirit." In
one of his earlier letters Walpole describes his friend Gray as
Orozmades.]
[Footnote 2: "_A fair widow._" Lady Waldegrave, a natural daughter of
Walpole's uncle, married the King's favourite brother, the Duke of
Gloucester, the _great personage_. The King was very indignant at the
_mésalliance_; and this marriage, with that of the King's other brother,
the Duke of Cumberland, to Mrs. Horton, led to the enactment of the
Royal Marriage Act.]
[Footnote 3: Elizabeth Woodville was the daughter of a Sir Richard
Woodville, and his wife, the Duchess of Bedford, the widow of the
illustrious brother of Henry V. Her first husband had been Sir John
Grey, a knight of the Lancastrian party; and, after his death, Edward
IV., attracted by her remarkable beauty, married her in 1464.]
As one of my ancient passions, formerly, was Masquerades, I had a large
trunk of dresses by me. I dressed out a thousand young Conways and
Cholmondeleys, and went with more pleasure to see them pleased than when
I formerly delighted in that diversion myself. It has cost me a great
headache, and I shall probably never go to another. A symptom appeared
of the change that has happened in the people.
The mob was beyond all belief: they held flambeaux to the windows of
every coach, and demanded to have the masks pulled off and put on at
their pleasure, but with extreme good-humour and civility. I was with my
Lady Hertford and two of her daughters, in their coach: the mob took me
for Lord Hertford, and huzzaed and blessed me! One fellow cried out,
"Are you for Wilkes?" another said, "D--n you, you fool, what has Wilkes
to do with a Masquerade?"
In good truth, that stock is fallen very low. The Court has recovered a
majority of seventy-five in the House of Commons; and the party has
succeeded so ill in the Lords, that my Lord Chatham has betaken himself
to the gout, and appears no more. What Wilkes may do at his enlargement
in April, I don't know, but his star is certainly much dimmed. The
distress of France, the injustice they have been induced to commit on
public credit, immense bankruptcies, and great bankers hanging and
drowning themselves, are comfortable objects in our prospect; for one
tiger is charmed if another tiger loses his tail.
There was a stroke of the monkey last night that will sound ill in the
ears of your neighbour the Pope. The heir-apparent of the House of
Norfolk, a drunken old mad fellow, was, though a Catholic, dressed like
a Cardinal: I hope he was scandalised at the wives of our Bishops.
So you agree with me, and don't think that the crusado from Russia will
recover the Holy Land! It is a pity; for, if the Turks kept it a little
longer, I doubt it will be the Holy Land no longer. When Rome totters,
poor Jerusalem! As to your Count Orloff's[1] denying the murder of the
late Czar, it is no more than every felon does at the Old Bailey. If I
could write like Shakspeare, I would make Peter's ghost perch on the
dome of Sancta Sophia, and, when the Russian fleet comes in sight, roar,
with a voice of thunder that should reach to Petersburg,
Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow!
[Footnote 1: Count Orloff was one of the Czarina's earlier lovers, and
was universally understood to have been the principal agent in the
murder of her husband.]
We have had two or three simpletons return from Russia, charmed with the
murderess, believing her innocent, _because_ she spoke graciously to
_them_ in the drawing-room. I don't know what the present Grand
Signior's name is, Osman, or Mustapha, or what, but I am extremely on
his side against Catherine of Zerbst; and I never intend to ask him for
a farthing, nor write panegyrics on him for pay, like Voltaire and
Diderot; so you need not say a word to him of my good wishes. Benedict
XIV. deserved my friendship, but being a sound Protestant, one would
not, you know, make all Turk and Pagan and Infidel princes too familiar.
Adieu!
[Illustration: SIR ROBERT WALPOLE
_From a mezzotint by J. Simon after a picture by Sir Godfrey Kneller_]
_WILKES--BURKE'S PAMPHLET--PREDICTION OF AMERICAN
REPUBLICS--EXTRAVAGANCE IN ENGLAND._