Books: The Letters of Horace Walpole Volume 3

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Letter 72 To The Countess Of Suffolk.(150)
Friday night, April 1761. (page 120)

We are more successful, Madam, than I could flatter myself we
should be. Mr. Conway--and I need say no more--has negotiated so
well, that the Duke of Grafton is disposed to bring Mr.
Beauclerk(151) in for Thetford. It will be expected, I believe,
that Lord Vere should resign Windsor in a handsome manner to the
Duke of Cumberland. It must be your ladyship's part to prepare
this; which I hope will be the means of putting an end to these
unhappy differences. My only fear now is, lest the Duke should
have promised the Lodge.' Mr. Conway writes to Lord Albemarle,
who is yet at Windsor, to prevent this, if not already done, till
the rest is ready to be notified to the Duke of Cumberland. Your
ladyship's good sense and good heart make it unnecessary for me
to say more.

(150) Now first collected.

(151) The Hon. Aubrey Beauclerk, son of Lord Vere; afterwards
Duke of St. Albans.

Letter 73 To George Montagu, Esq.
Arlington Street, April 16, 1761. (page 121)

You are a very mule; one offers you a handsome stall and manger
in Berkeley Square, and you will not accept it. I have chosen
your coat, a claret colour, to suit the complexion of the country
you are going to visit; but I have fixed nothing about the lace.
Barrett had none of gauze, but what were as broad as the Irish
Channel. Your tailor found a very reputable one at another
place, but I would not determine rashly; it will be two or
three-and-twenty shillings the yard: you might have a very
substantial real lace,' which would wear like your buffet, for
twenty. The second order of gauzes are frippery, none above
twelve shillings, and those tarnished, for the species are out of
fashion. You will have time to sit in judgment upon these
important points; for Hamilton(152) your secretary told me at the
Opera two nights ago, that he had taken a house near Busby, and
hoped to be in my neighbourhood for four months.

I was last night at your plump Countess's who is so shrunk, that
she does not seem to be composed of above a dozen hassocs. Lord
Guildford rejoiced mightily over your preferment. The Duchess of
Argyle was playing there, not knowing that the great Pam was just
dead,, to wit, her brother-in-law. He was abroad in the morning,
was seized with a palpitation after dinner, and was dead before
the surgeon could arrive. There's the crown of Scotland too
fallen upon my Lord Bute's head! Poor Lord Edgecumbe is still
alive, and may be so for some days; the physicians, who no longer
ago than Friday se'nnight persisted that he had no dropsy, in
order to prevent his having Ward,(153) on Monday last proposed
that Ward should be called in, and at length they owned they
thought the mortification begun. It is not clear it is yet; at
times he is in his senses, and entirely so, composed, clear, and
most rational; talks of his death, and but yesterday, after such
a conversation with his brother, asked for a pencil to amuse
himself with drawing. What parts, genius, agreeableness thrown
away at a hazard table, and not permitted the chance of being
saved by the villainy of physicians!

You will be pleased with the Anacreontic, written by Lord
Middlesex upon Sir Harry Bellendine: I have not seen any thing so
antique for ages; it has all the fire, poetry, and simplicity of
Horace.

"Ye sons of Bacchus, come and join
in solemn dirge, while tapers shine
Around the grape-embowered shrine
Of honest Harry Bellendine.

Pour the rich juice of Bourdeaux's wine,
Mix'd with your falling tears of brine,
In full libation o'er the shrine
Of honest Harry Bellendine.

Your brows let ivy chaplets twine,
While you push round the sparkling wine,
And let your table be the shrine
Of honest Hairy Bellendine."

He died in his vocation, of a high fever, after the celebration
of some orgies. Though but six hours in his senses, he gave a
proof of his usual good humour, making it his last request to the
sister Tuftons to be reconciled; which they are. His pretty
villa, in my neighbourhood, I fancy he has left to the new Lord
Lorn. I must tell you an admirable bon-mot of George Selwyn,
though not a new one; when there was a malicious report that the
eldest Tufton was to marry Dr. Duncan, Selwyn said, "How often
will she repeat that line of Shakspeare,

"Wake Duncan with this knocking--would thou couldst!"

I enclose the receipt from your lawyer. Adieu!

(152) William Gerard Hamilton, commonly called Single-speech
Hamilton, was, on the appointment of Lord Halifax to the
viceroyalty of Ireland, selected as his secretary, and was
accompanied thither by the celebrated Edmund Burke, partly as a
friend and partly as his private secretary.-E.

(153) The celebrated empiric, see ant`e, p. 37, letter 10. His
drops were first introduced in 1732, by Sir Thomas Robinson; upon
which occasion, Sir C. H. Williams addressed to him his poem,
commencing,

"Say, knight, for learning most renown'd,
What is this wondrous drop?"-E.

Letter 74 To George Montagu, Esq.
Arlington Street, April 28, 1761. (page 122)

I am glad you will relish June for Strawberry; by that time I
hope the weather will have recovered its temper. At present it
is horridly cross and uncomfortable; I fear we shall have a cold
season; we cannot eat our summer and have our summer.

There has been a terrible fire in the little traverse street, at
the upper end of Sackville Street. Last Friday night, between
eleven and twelve, I was sitting with Lord Digby in the
coffee-room at Arthur's; they told us there was a great fire
somewhere about Burlington Gardens. I, who am as constant at a
fire as George Selwyn at an execution, proposed to Lord Digby to
go and see where it was. We found it within two doors of that
pretty house of Fairfax, now General Waldegrave's. I sent for
the latter, who was at Arthur's; and for the guard, from St.
James's. Four houses were in flames before they could find a
drop of water; eight were burnt. I went to my Lady Suffolk, in
Saville Row, and passed the whole night, till three in the
morning, between her little hot bedchamber and the spot up to my
ancles in water, without catching cold.(154) As the wind, which
had sat towards Swallow Street, changed in the middle of the
conflagration, I concluded the greater part of Saville Row would
be consumed. I persuaded her to prepare to transport her most
valuable effects--"portantur avari Pygmalionis opes miserae."
She behaved with great composure, and observed to me herself how
much worse her deafness grew with the alarm. Half the people of
fashion in town were in the streets all night, as it happened in
such a quarter of distinction. In the crowd, looking on with
great tranquillity, I saw a Mr. Jackson, an Irish gentleman, with
whom I had dined this winter, at Lord Hertford's. He seemed
rather grave; I said, "Sir, I hope you do not live hereabouts."
"Yes, Sir," said he, "I lodged in that house that is Just burnt."

Last night there was a mighty ball at Bedford-house; the royal
Dukes and Princess Emily were there; your lord-lieutenant, the
great lawyer, lords, and old Newcastle, whose teeth are tumbled
out, and his mouth tumbled in; hazard very deep; loo, beauties,
and the Wilton Bridge in sugar, almost as big as the life. I am
glad all these joys are near going out of town. The Graftons go
abroad for the Duchess's health; Another climate may mend that--I
will not answer for more. Adieu! Yours ever.

(154) This accident was owing to a coachman carrying a lighted
candle into the stable, and, agreeably to Dean Swift's Advice to
Servants, sticking it against the rack; the straw being set in a
flame in his absence, by the candle falling. Eight or nine
horses perished, and fourteen houses were burnt to the ground.
Walpole was, most probably, not an idle spectator for the
newspapers relate, that the "gentlemen in the neighbourhood,
together with their servants, formed a ring, kept off the mob,
and handed the goods and movables from one another, till they
secured them in a place of safety; a noble instance of
neighbourly respect and kindness."-E.

Letter 75 To George Montagu, Esq.
Arlington Street, May 5, 1761. (page 123)

We have lost a young genius, Sir William Williams;(155) 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? I rejoiced at the little
loss we had on landing; for the glory, I leave it to 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 foot-pace,
will finish the first page two years hence.

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 the truth?" This truth was uttered in
the face of his own Sigismonda, which is exactly a maudlin w----,
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' daughter): I would not have you
say any thing 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 it not? 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 any thing, 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 any thing 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!

(155) Sir William Pere Williams, Bart. member for Shoreham, and a
captain in Burgoyne's Dragoons. He was killed in reconnoitring
before Belleisle. Gray wrote his epitaph, at the request of Mr.
Frederick Montagu, who intended to have it inscribed on a
monument at Belleisle:--

"Here, foremost in the dangerous paths of fame,
Young Williams fought for England's fair renown;
His mind each Muse, each Grace adornd his frame,
Nor Envy dared to view him with a frown," etc.-E.

Letter 76 To George Montagu, Esq.
Strawberry Hill, May, 14, 1761. (page 125)

As I am here, and know nothing of our poor heroes at Belleisle,
who are combating rocks, mines, famine, and Mr. Pitt's obstinacy,
I will send you the victory of a heroine, but must preface it
with an apology, as it was gained over a sort of relation of
yours. Jemmy Lumley last week had a party of whist at his own
house; the combatants, Lucy Southwell, that curtseys like a bear,
Mrs. Prijean, and a Mrs. Mackenzy. They played from six In the
evening till twelve next day; Jemmy never winning one rubber, and
rising a loser of two thousand pounds. How it happened I know
not, nor why his suspicions arrived so late, but he fancied
himself cheated, and refused to pay. However, the bear had no
share in his evil surmises: on the contrary, a day or two
afterwards, he promised a dinner at Hampstead to Lucy and her
virtuous sister. As he went to the rendezvous his chaise was
stopped by somebody, who advised him not to proceed. Yet no whit
daunted, he advanced. In the garden he found The gentle
conqueress, Mrs. MacKenzy, Who accosted him in the most friendly
manner. After a few compliments, she asked if he did not intend
to pay her. "No, indeed I shan't, I shan't; your servant, your
servant."--"Shan't you?" said the fair virago; and taking a
horsewhip from beneath her hoop, she fell upon him with as much
vehemence as the Empress-queen would upon the King of Prussia, if
she could catch him alone in the garden at Hampstead. Jemmy
cried out murder; his servant,- rushed in, rescued him from the
jaws of the lioness, and carried him off in his chaise to town.
The Southwells, were already arrived, and descended on the noise
of the fray, finding nobody to pay for the dinner, and fearing
they must, set out for London too without it, though I suppose
they had prepared tin pockets to carry off all that should be
left. Mrs. Mackenzy is immortal, and in the crown-office.(156)

The other battle in my military journal happened between the
Duchess of Argyle and Lord Vere. The Duchess, who always talks
of puss and pug, and who, having lost her memory, forgets how
often she tells the same story, had tired the company at
Dorset-house with the repetition of the same story; when the
Duke's spaniel reached up into her lap, and placed his nose most
critically: "See," said she, "see, how fond all creatures are of
me." Lord Vere, who was at cards, and could not attend to them
for her gossiping, said peevishly, without turning round or
seeing where the dog was, "I suppose he smells PUSS." "What!"
said the Duchess of Argyle, in a passion, "Do you think my puss
stinks?" I believe you have not two better stories in
Northamptonshire.

Don't imagine that my gallery will be prance-about-in-able, as
you expect, by the beginning of June; I do not propose to finish
it till next year, but you will see some glimpse of it, and for
the rest of Strawberry, it never was more beautiful, You must now
begin to fix your motions: I go to Lord Dacre's at the end of
this month, and to Lord Ilchester's the end of the next; between
those periods I expect you.

Saturday morning, Arlington Street.
I came to town yesterday for a party at Bedford-house, made for
Princess Amelia; the garden was open, with French horns and
clarionets, and would have been charming with one single zephyr,
that had not come from the northeast; however, the young ladies
found it delightful. There was limited loo for the Princess,
unlimited for the Duchess of Grafton, to whom I belonged, a table
of quinze, and another of quadrille. The Princess ha(f heard of
our having cold meat upon the loo-table, and would have some. A
table was brought in, she was served so, others rose by turns and
went to the cold meat; in the outward room were four little
tables for the rest of the company. Think, if King George the
Second could have risen and seen his daughter supping pell-mell
with men, as if it were in a booth! The tables were removed, the
young people began to dance to a tabor and pipe; the Princess sat
down again, but to unlimited loo; we played till three, and I won
enough to help on the gallery. I am going back to it, to give my
nieces and their lords a dinner.

We were told there was a great victory come from Pondicherry, but
it came from too far to divert us from liking our party better.
Poor George Monson has lost his leg there. You know that Sir W.
Williams has made Fred. Montagu heir to his debts. Adieu!

(156) "Sure Mr. Jonathan, or some one, has told you how your good
friend Mr. L. has been horsewhippcd, trampled, bruised, and p--d
upon, by a Mrs. Mackenzie, a sturdy Scotchwoman. it was done in
an inn-yard at Hampstead, in the face of day, and he has put her
in the crown-office. it is very true." Gray to Wharton.

Letter 77 To The Countess Of Ailesbury.
Strawberry Hill, June 13, 1761. (page 126)

I never ate such good snuff, nor smelt such delightful bonbons,
as your ladyship has sent me. Every time you rob the Duke's
dessert, does it cost you a pretty snuff-box? Do the pastors at
the Hague(157) enjoin such expensive retributions? If a man
steals a kiss there, I suppose he does penance in a sheet of
Brussels lace. The comical part is, that you own the theft, ind
sending me, but say nothing of the vehicle of your repentance.
In short, Madam, the box is the prettiest thing I ever saw, and I
give you a thousand thanks for it.

When you comfort yourself about the operas, you don't know what
you have lost; nay, nor I neither; for I was here, concluding
that a serenata for a birthday would be -is dull and as vulgar as
those festivities generally are: but I hear of nothing but the
enchantment of it.(158) There was a second orchestra in the
footman's gallery, disguised by clouds, and filled with the music
of the King'S chapel. The choristers behaved like angels, and
the harmony between the two bands was in the most exact time.
Elisi piqued himself, and beat both heaven and earth. The joys
of the year do not end there. The under-actors open at
Drury-lane to-night with a new comedy by Murphey, called "All in
the Wrong."(159) At Ranelagh, all is fireworks and skyrockets.
The birthday exceeded the splendour of Haroun Alraschid and the
Arabian Nights, when people had nothing to do but to scour a
lantern and send a genie for a hamper of diamonds and rubies. Do
you remember one of those stories, where a prince has eight
statues of diamonds, which he overlooks, because he fancies he
wants a ninth; and to his great surprise the ninth proves to be
pure flesh and blood, which he never thought of? Some how or
other, Lady Sarah(160 is the ninth statue; and, you will allow,
has better white and red than if she was made of pearls and
rubies. Oh! I forgot, I was telling you of the birthday: my Lord
P * * * * had drunk the King's health so often at dinner, that at
the ball he took Mrs. * * * * for a beautiful woman, and, as she
says, "made an improper use of his hands." The proper use of
hers, she thought, was to give him a box on the ear, though
within the verge of the court. He returned it by a push, and she
tumbled off the end of the bench; which his Majesty has accepted
as sufficient punishment, and she is not to lose her right
hand.(161)

I enclose the list your ladyship desired: you will see that the
Plurality of Worlds" are Moore's, and of some I do not know the
authors. ' There is a late edition with these names to them.

My duchess was to set out this morning. I saw her for the last
time the day before yesterday at Lady Kildare's: never was a
journey less a party of pleasure. She was so melancholy, that
all Miss Pelham's oddness and my spirits could scarce make her
smile. Towards the end of the night, and that was three in the
morning, I did divert her a little. I slipped Pam into her lap,
and then taxed her with having it there. She was quite
confounded; but, taking it up, saw he had a Telescope in his
hand, which I had drawn, and that the card, which was split, and
just waxed together, contained these lines:

"Ye simple astronomers, lay by your glasses;
The transit of Venus has proved you all asses:
Your telescopes signify nothing to scan it;
'Tis not meant in the clouds, 'tis not meant of a planet:
The seer who foretold it mistook or deceives us,
For Venus's transit is when Grafton leaves us."

I don't send your ladyship these verses as good, but to show you
that all gallantry does not centre at the Hague.

I wish I could tell you that Stanley(162) and Bussy, by crossing
over and figuring in, had forwarded the peace. It is no more
made than Belleisle is taken. However, I flatter myself that you
will not stay abroad till you return for the coronation, which is
ordered for the beginning of October. I don't care to tell you
how lovely the season is; how my acacias are powdered with
flowers, and my hay just in its picturesque moment. Do they ever
make any other hay in Holland than bulrushes in ditches? My new
buildings rise so swiftly, that I shall have not a shilling left,
so far from giving commissions on Amsterdam. When I have made my
house so big that I don't know what to do with it, and am
entirely undone, I propose, like King Pyrrhus, who took such a
roundabout way to a bowl of punch, to sit down and enjoy myself;
but with this difference, that it is better to ruin one's self
than all the world. I am sure you would think as I do, though
Pyrrhus were King of Prussia. I long to have you bring back the
only hero that ever I could endure. Adieu, Madam! I sent you
just such another piece of tittle-tattle as this by General
Waldegrave: you are very partial to me, or very fond of knowing
every thing that passes in your own country, if you can be amused
so. If you can, 'tis surely my duty to divert you, though at the
expense of my character; for I own I am ashamed when I look back
and see four sides of paper scribbled over with nothings.

(157) Lady Ailesbury remained at the Hague while Mr. Conway was
with the army during the campaign in 1761.

(158) The music was by Cocchi. Dr. Burney says it was not
sufficiently admired to encourage the manager to perform it more
than twice.-E.

(159) 'This comedy, which came out in the summer-season at
Drury-lane, under the conduct of Foote and the author, met with
considerable success. Some of the hints are acknowledged to have
been borrowed from Moli`ere's "Cocu Imaginaire."-E.

(160) Lady Sarah Lenox.-E.

(161) The old punishment for giving a blow in the King's
presence.

(162) Mr. Hans Stanley was at this time employed in negotiating a
peace at Paris.-E.

Letter 78 To George Montagu, Esq.
Strawberry Hill, June 18, 1761. (page 128)

I am glad you will come on Monday, and hope you will arrive in a
rainbow and pair, to signify that we are not to be totally
drowned. It has rained incessantly, and floated all my new
works; I seem rather to be building a pond than a gallery. My
farm too is all under water, and what is vexatious, if Sunday had
not thrust itself between, I could have got in my hay on Monday.
As the parsons will let nobody else make hay on Sundays, I think
they ought to make it on that day themselves.

By the papers I see Mrs. Trevor Hampden is dead of the smallpox.
Will he be much concerned? If you will stay with me a fortnight
or three weeks, perhaps I may be able to carry you to a play of
Mr. Bentley's--you stare, but I am in earnest: nay, and de par le
roy. In short, here is the history of it. You know the passion
he always had for the Italian comedy; about two years ago he
wrote one, intending to get it offered to Rich, but without his
name. He would have died to be supposed an author, and writing
for gain. I kept this an inviolable secret. Judge then of my
surprise, when about a fortnight or three weeks ago, I found my
Lord Melcomb reading this very Bentleiad in a circle at my Lady
Hervey's. Cumberland had carried it to him with a recommendatory
copy of verses, containing more incense to the King and my Lord
Bute, than the magi brought in their portmanteaus to Jerusalem.
The idols were propitious, and to do them justice, there is a
great deal of wit in the piece, which is called "The Wishes, or
Harlequin's Mouth Opened."(163) A bank note of two hundred
pounds was sent from the treasury to the author, and the play
ordered to be performed by the summer company. Foote was
summoned to Lord Melcomb's, where Parnassus was composed of the
peer himself, who, like Apollo, as I am going to tell you, was
dozing, the two chief justices, and Lord B. Bubo read the play
himself, "with handkerchief and orange by his side." But the
curious part is a prologue, which I never saw. It represents the
god of verse fast asleep by the side of Helicon: the race of
modern bards try to wake him, but the more they repeat their
works, the louder he snores. At last "Ruin seize thee, ruthless
King!" is heard, and the god starts from his trance. This is a
good thought, but will offend the bards so much, that I think Dr.
Bentley's son will be abused at least @as much as his father was.
The prologue concludes with young Augustus, and how much he
excels the ancient one by the choice of his friend. Foote
refused to act this prologue, and said it was too strong.
"Indeed," said Augustus's friend, "I think it is." They have
softened it a little, and I suppose it will be performed. You
may depend upon the truth of all this; but what is much more
credible is, that the comely young author appears every night in
the Mall in a milk-white coat with a blue cape, disclaims any
benefit, and says he has done with the play now it is out of his
own hands, and that Mrs. Hannah Clio, alias Bentley, writ the
best scenes in it. He is going to write a tragedy, and she, I
suppose, is going--to court.