Books: The Letters of Horace Walpole Volume 3

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If you don't come to town soon, I give you warning, I will be a
lord of the bedchamber, or a gentleman usher. If you will, I
will be nothing but what I have been so many years-my own and
yours ever.

(15) Walpole, in his Memoires, vol. ii. p. 401, gives a
particular account of these commotions. Gray, in a letter to Dr.
Wharton, of the 23d of January, says, "They placed an old woman
on the throne, and called for pipes and tobacco; made my Lord
Chief Justice administer an oath (which they dictated) to my Lord
Chancellor; beat the Bishop of Killaloe black and blue; at
foot-ball with Chenevix, the old refugee Bishop of Waterford;
rolled my Lord Farnham in the kennel; pulled Sir Thomas
Prendergast by the nose (naturally large) till it was the size of
a cauliflower-; and would have hanged Rigby if he had not got out
of a window. At last the guard was obliged to move (with orders
not to fire), but the mob threw dirt at them. then the horse
broke in upon them, cutting and slashing, and took seventeen
prisoners. The notion that had possessed the crowd was, that a
union was to be voted between the two nations, and they should
have no more parliaments there." Works, vol. iii. p. 233.-E.

(16) This distinguished admiral survived till January 1761.-E.

(17) Daughter of lord Torrington, and sister of the unfortunate
Admiral Byng. She was married to the son of sir John Osborn of
Chicksand Priory.-E.

Letter 8 To The Right Hon. Lady Hervey.
Jan. 12, 1760. (page 34)

I am very sorry your ladyship could doubt a moment on the cause
of my concern yesterday. I saw you much displeased at what I had
said; and felt so innocent of the least intention of offending
you, that I could not help being struck at my own ill-fortune,
and wit[) the sensation raised by finding you mix great goodness
with great severity.

I am naturally very impatient under praise; I have reflected
enough on myself to know I don't deserve it; and with this
consciousness you ought to forgive me, Madam, if I dreaded that
the person Whose esteem I valued the most in the world, should
think, that I was fond of what I know is not my due. I meant to
express this apprehension as respectfully as I could, but my
words failed me-a misfortune not too common to me, who am apt to
say too much, not too little! Perhaps it is that very quality
which your ladyship calls wit, and I call tinsel, for which I
dread being praised. I wish to recommend myself to you by more
essential merits-and if I can only make you laugh, it will be
very apt to make me as much concerned as I was yesterday. For
people to whose approbation I am indifferent, I don't care
whether they commend or condemn me for my wit; in the former case
they Will not make me admire myself for it, in the latter they
can't make me think but what I have thought already. But for the
few whose friendship I wish, I would fain have them see, that
under all the idleness of my spirits there are some very serious
qualities, such as warmth, gratitude, and sincerity, which @ill
returns may render useless or may make me lock up in my breast,
but which will remain there while I have a being.

having drawn you this picture of myself, Madam, a subject I have
to say so much upon, will not your good-nature apply it as it
deserves, to what passed yesterday? Won't you believe that my
concern flowed from being disappointed at having offended one
whom I ought by so many ties to try to please, and whom, if I
ever meant any thing, I had meaned to please? I intended you
should see how much I despise wit, if I have any, and that you
should know my heart was void of vanity and full of gratitude.
They -are very few I desire should know so much; but my passions
act too promptly and too naturally, as you saw, when I am with
those I really love, to be capable of any disguise. Forgive me,
Madam, this tedious detail but of all people living, I cannot
bear that you should have a doubt about me.

Letter 9 To George Montagu, Esq.
Arlington Street, Jan. 14, 1760. (page 35)

How do you contrive to exist on your mountain in this rude
season! Sure you must be become a snowball! As I was not in
England in forty-one, I had no notion of such cold. The streets
are abandoned; nothing appears in them: the Thames is almost as
solid. Then think what a campaign must be in such a season! Our
army was under arms for fourteen hours on the twenty-third,
expecting the French and several of the men were frozen when they
should have dismounted. What milksops the Marlboroughs and
Ttirennes, the Blakes and the Van Tromps appear now, who whipped
into winter quarters and into port, the moment their noses looked
blue. Sir Cloudesly Shovel said that an admiral would deserve to
be broke, who kept great ships out after the end of September,
and to be shot if after October. There is Hawke(18) in the bay
weathering this winter, after conquering in a storm. For my
part, I scarce venture to make a campaign in the Opera-house; for
if I once begin to freeze, I shall be frozen through in a moment.
I am amazed, with such weather, such ravages, and distress, that
there is any thing left in Germany, but money; for thither half
the treasure of Europe goes: England, France, Russia, and all the
Empress can squeeze from Italy and Hungary, all is sent thither,
and yet the wretched people have not subsistence. A pound of
bread sells at Dresden for eleven-pence. We are going to send
many more troops thither; and it Is so much the fashion to raise
regiments, that I wish there were such a neutral kind of beings
in England as abb`es, that one might have an excuse for not
growing military mad, when one has turned the heroic corner of
one's age. I am ashamed of being a young rake, when my seniors
are covering their gray toupees with helmets and feathers, and
accoutering their pot-bellies with cuirasses and martial
masquerade habits. Yet rake I am, and abominably so, for a
person that begins to wrinkle reverently. I have sat up twice
this week till between two and three with the Duchess of Grafton,
at loo, who, by the way, has got a pam-child this morning; and on
Saturday night I supped with Prince Edward at my Lady Rochford's,
and we stayed till half an hour past three. My favour with that
Highness continues, or rather increases. He makes every body
make suppers for him to meet me, for I still hold out against
going to court. In short, if he were twenty years older, or I
could make myself twenty years younger, I might carry him to
Camden-house, and be as impertinent as ever my Lady Churchill
was; but, as I dread being ridiculous, I shall give my Lord Bute
no uneasiness. My Lady Maynard, who divides the favour of this
tiny court with me,- supped with us. Did you know she sings
French ballads very prettily? Lord Rochford played on the guitar,
and the Prince sung; there were my two nieces, and Lord
Waldegrave, Lord Huntingdon, and Mr. Morrison the groom, and the
evening was pleasant; but I had a much more agreeable supper last
night at Mrs. Clive's, with Miss West, my niece Cholmondeley, and
Murphy, the writing actor, who is very good company, and two or
three more. Mrs. Cholmondeley is very lively; you know how
entertaining the Clive is, and Miss West is an absolute original.

There is nothing new, but a very dull pamphlet, written by Lord
Bath, and his chaplain Douglas, called a Letter to Two Great Men.
It is a plan for the peace, and much adopted by the city, and
much admired by all who are too humble to judge for themselves.

I was much diverted the other morning with another volume on
birds, by Edwards, who has published four or five. The poor man,
who is grown very old and devout, begs God to take from him the
love of natural philosophy; and having observed some heterodox
proceedings among bantam cocks, he proposes that all schools of
girls and boys should be promiscuous, lest, if separated, they
should learn wayward passions. But what struck me most were his
dedications, the last was to God; this is to Lord Bute, as if he
was determined to make his fortune in one world or the other.

Pray read Fontaine's fable of the lion grown old; don't it put
you in mind of any thing? No! not when his shaggy majesty has
borne the insults of the tiger and the horse, etc. and the ass
comes last, kicks out his only remaining fang, and asks for a
blue bridle? Apropos, I will tell you the turn Charles Townshend
gave to this fable. "My lord," said he, "has quite mistaken the
thing; he soars too high at first: people often miscarry by not
proceeding by degrees; he went and at once asked for my Lord
Carlisle's garter-if he would have been contented to ask first
for my Lady Carlisle's garter, I don't know but he would have
obtained it." ' Adieu!

(18) Sir Edward Hawke had defeated the French fleet, commanded by
Admiral Conflans, in the beginning of this winter. [A graphical
description of this victory is given by Walpole in his Memoires.
"It was," he says, "the 20th of November: the shortness of the
day prevented the total demolition of the enemy; but neither
darkness, nor a dreadful tempest that ensued, could call off Sir
Edward from pursuing his blow. The roaring of the element was
redoubled by the thunder from our ships; and both concurred, in
that scene of horror, to put a period to the navy and hopes of
France."--E.]

Letter 10 To Sir Horace Mann.
Strawberry Hill, Jan. 20, 1760. (page 36)

I am come hither in the bleakest of all winters, not to air and
exercise, but to look after my gold-fish and orange-trees. We
import all the delights of hot countries, but as we cannot
propagate their climate too, such a season as this is mighty apt
to murder rarities. And it is this very winter that has been
used for the invention of a campaign in Germany! where all fuel
is so destroyed that they have no fire but out of the mouth of a
cannon. If I were writing to an Italian as well as into Italy,
one might string concetti for an hour, and describe how heroes
are frozen on their horses till they become their own statues.
But seriously, does not all this rigour of warfare throw back an
air of effeminacy on the Duke of Marlborough and the brave of
ancient days, who only went to fight as one goes out of town in
spring, and who came back to London with the first frost'@ Our
generals are not yet arrived, though the Duke de Broglio's last
miscarriage seems to determine that there shall at last be such a
thing as winter quarters; but Daun and the King of Prussia are
still choosing King and Queen in the field.

There is a horrid scene of distress in the family of Cavendish;
the Duke's sister,(19) Lady Besborough, died this morning of the
same fever and sore throat of which she lost four children four
years ago. It looks as if it was a plague fixed in the walls of
their house: it broke out again among their servants, and carried
off two, a year and a half after the children. About ten days
ago Lord Besborough was seized with it, and escaped with
difficulty; then the eldest daughter had it, though slightly: my
lady, attending them, is dead of it in three days. It is the
same sore throat which carried off Mr. Pelham's two only sons,
two daughters, and a daughter of the Duke of Rutland, at once.
The physicians, I think, don't know what to make of it.

I am sorry you and your friend Count Lorenzi(20) are such
political foes, but I am much more concerned for the return of
your headaches. I don't know what to say about Ward's(21)
medicine, because the cures he does in that complaint are
performed by him in person. He rubs his hand with some
preparation and holds it upon your forehead, from which several
have found instant relief. If you please, I will consult him
whether he will send you any preparation for it; but you must
first send me the exact symptoms and circumstances of your
disorder and constitution, for I would not for the world venture
to transmit to you a blind remedy for an unexamined complaint.

You cannot figure a duller season: the weather bitter, no party,
little money, half the world playing the fool in the country with
the militia, others raising regiments or with their regiments; in
short, the end of a war and of a reign furnish few episodes.
Operas are more in their decline than ever. Adieu!

(19) Caroline, eldest daughter of William third Duke of
Devonshire, and wife of William Ponsonby, Earl of Besborough.

(20) Minister of France at Florence, though a Florentine.

(21) Ward, the empiric, whose pill and drop were supposed, at
this time, to have a surprising effect. He is immortalized by
Pope-

"See Ward by batter'd beaux invited over."

There is a curious statue of him in marble at the Society of
Arts, in full dress, and a flowing wig.-D.

Letter 11 To George Montagu, Esq.
Arlington Street, Jan. 28, 1760. (page 37)

I shall almost frighten you from coming to London, for whether
you have the constitution of a horse or a man, you will be
equally in danger. All the horses in town are laid up with sore
throats and colds, and are so hoarse you cannot hear them speak,
I, with all my immortality, have been -half killed; that violent
bitter weather was too much for me; I have had a nervous fever
these six or seven weeks every night, and have taken bark enough
to have made a rind for Daphne; nay, have even stayed at home two
days; but I think my eternity begins to bud again. I am quite of
Dr. Garth's mind, who, when any body commended a hard frost to
him, used to reply, "Yes, Sir, 'fore Gad, very fine weather, Sir,
very wholesome weather, Sir; kills trees, Sir; very good for man,
Sir." There has been cruel havoc among the ladies; my Lady Granby
is dead; and the famous Polly, Duchess of Bolton, and my Lady
Besborough. I have no great reason to lament the last, and yet
the circumstances of her death, and the horror of it to her
family, make one shudder. It was the same sore throat and fever
that carried off four of their children a few years ago. My lord
now fell ill of it, very ill, and the eldest daughter slightly:
my lady caught it, attending her husband, and concealed it as
long as she could. When at last the physician insisted on her
keeping her bed, she said, as she went into her room, "Then, Lord
have mercy on me! I shall never come out of it again," and died
in three days. Lord Besborough grew outrageously impatient at
not seeing her, and would have forced into her room, when she had
been dead about four days. They were obliged to tell him the
truth: never was an answer that expressed so much horror! he
said, "And how many children have I left?"not knowing how far
this calamity might have reached. Poor Lady Coventry is near
completing this black list.

You have heard, I suppose, a horrid story of another kind, of
Lord Ferrers murdering his steward in the most barbarous and
deliberate manner. He sent away all his servants but one, and,
like that heroic murderess Queen Christina, carried the poor man
through a gallery and several rooms, locking them after him, and
then bid the man kneel down, for he was determined to kill him.
The poor creature flung himself at his feet, but in vain; was
shot, and lived twelve hours. Mad as this action was from the
consequences, there was no frenzy in his behaviour; he got drunk,
and, at intervals, talked of it coolly; but did not attempt to
escape, till the colliers beset his house, and were determined to
take him alive or dead. He is now in the gaol at Leicester, and
will soon be removed to the Tower, then to Westminster Hall, and
I suppose to Tower Hill; unless, as Lord Talbot prophesied in the
House of Lords, "Not being thought mad enough to be shut up, till
he had killed somebody, he will then be thought too mad to be
executed;" but Lord Talbot was no more honoured in his vocation,
than other prophets are in their own country.

As you seem amused with my entertainments, I will tell you how I
passed yesterday. A party was made to go to the Magdalen-house.
We met at Northumberland-house at five, and set off in four
coaches. Prince Edward, Colonel Brudenel his groom, Lady
Northumberland, Lady Mary Coke, Lady Carlisle, Miss Pelham, Lady
Hertford, Lord Beauchamp, Lord Huntingdon. old Bowman, and I.
This new convent is beyond Goodman's-fields, and I assure you
would content any Catholic alive. We were received by--oh!
first, a vast mob, for princes are not so common at that end of
the town as at this. Lord Hertford, at the head of the governors
with their white staves, met us at the door, and led the Prince
directly into the chapel, where, before the altar, was an
arm-chair for him, with a blue damask cushion, a prie-Dieu, and a
footstool of black cloth with gold nails. We set on forms near
him. There were Lord and Lady Dartmouth in the odour of
devotion, and many city ladies. The chapel is small and low, but
neat, hung with Gothic paper, and tablets of benefactions. At
the west end were enclosed the sisterhood, above an hundred and
thirty, all in grayish brown stuffs, broad handkerchiefs, and
flat straw hats, with a blue riband, pulled quite over their
faces. As soon as we entered the chapel, the organ played, and
the Magdalens sung a hymn in parts; you cannot imagine how well,
The chapel was dressed with orange and myrtle, and there wanted
nothing but a little incense to drive away the devil-or to invite
him. Prayers then began, psalms, and a sermon: the latter by a
young clergyman, one Dodd,(22) who contributed to the Popish idea
one had imbibed, by haranguing entirely in the French style, and
very eloquently and touchingly. He apostrophized the lost sheep,
who sobbed and cried from their souls; so did my Lady Hertford
and Fanny Pelham, till I believe the city dames took them both
for Jane Shores. The confessor then turned to the audience, and
addressed himself to his Royal Highness, whom he called most
illustrious Prince, beseeching his protection. In short, it was
a very pleasing performance, and I got the most illustrious to
desire it might be printed. We had another hymn, and then were
conducted to the parloir, where the governors kissed the Prince's
hand, and then the lady abbess, or matron, brought us tea. From
thence we went to the refectory, where all the nuns, without
their hats, were ranged at long tables, ready for supper. A few
were handsome, many who seemed to have no title to their
profession, and two or three of twelve years old; but all
recovered, and looking healthy. I was struck and pleased with
the modesty of two of them, who swooned away with the confusion
of being stared at. We were then shown their work, which is
making linen, and bead-work; they earn ten pounds a-week. One
circumstance diverted me, but amidst all this decorum, I kept it
to myself. The wands of the governors are white, but twisted at
top with black and white, which put me in mind of Jacob's rods,
that he placed before the cattle to make them breed. My Lord
Hertford would never have forgiven me, if I had joked on this; so
I kept my countenance very demurely, nor even inquired, whether
among the pensioners there were any novices from Mrs. Naylor's.

The court-martial on Lord George Sackville is appointed: General
Onslow is to be Speaker of it. Adieu! till I see you; I am glad
it will be so soon.

(22) The unfortunate Dr. Dodd, who suffered at Tyburn, in June
1770, for forgery.-E.

Letter 12 To Sir David Dalrymple.(23)
Strawberry Hill, Feb. 3, 1760. (page 40)

I am much obliged to you, Sir! for the Irish poetry.(24) they
are poetry, and resemble that of the East; that is, they contain
natural images and natural sentiment elevated, before rules were
invented to make poetry difficult and dull. The transitions are
as sudden as those in Pindar, but not so libertine; for they
start into new thoughts on the subject, without wandering from
it.' I like particularly the expression of calling Echo, "Son of
the Rock." The Monody is much the best.

I (cannot say I am surprised to hear that the controversy on the
Queen of Scots is likely to continue. Did not somebody write a
defence of Nero, and yet none of his descendants remained to
pretend to the empire? If Dr. Robertson could have said more, I
am sorry it will be forced from him. He had better have said it
voluntarily. You will forgive me for thinking his subject did
not demand it. Among the very few objections to his charming
work, one was, that he seemed to excuse that Queen more than was
allowable, from the very papers he has printed in his Appendix;
and some have thought, that though he could not disculpate her,
he has diverted indignation from her, by his art in raising up
pity for her and resentment against her persecutress, and by much
overloading the demerits of Lord Darnley. For my part, Dr.
Mackenzie, or any body else, may write what they please against
me: I meaned to speak my mind, not to write controversy-trash
seldom read but by the two opponents who write it. Yet were I
inclined to reply, like Dr. Robertson, I could say a little more.
You have mentioned, Sir, Mr. Dyer's Fleece. I own I think it a
very insipid poem.(25) His Ruins of Rome had great picturesque
spirit, and his Grongar Hill was beautiful. His Fleece I could
never get through; and from thence I suppose never heard of Dr.
Mackenzie.

Your idea of a collection of ballads for the cause of liberty is
very public-spirited. I wish, Sir, I could say I thought it
would answer your view. Liberty, like other good and bad
principles, can never be taught the people but when it is taught
them by faction. The mob will never sing lilibullero but in
opposition to some other mob. However, if you pursue the
thought, there is an entire treasure of that kind in the library
of Maudlin College, Cambridge. It was collected by Pepys,
secretary of the admiralty, and dates from the battle of
Agincourt. Give me leave to say, Sir, that it is very
comfortable to me to find gentlemen of your virtue and parts
attentive to what is so little the object of public attention
now. The extinction of faction, that happiness to which we owe
so much of our glory and success, may not be without some
inconveniences. A free nation, perhaps, especially when arms are
become so essential to our existence as a free people, may want a
little opposition: as it is a check that has preserved us so
long, one cannot wholly think it dangerous; and though I would
not be one to tap new resistance to a government with which I
have no fault to find, yet it may not be unlucky hereafter, if
those who do not wish so well to it, would a little show
themselves. They are not strong enough to hurt; they may be of
service by keeping ministers in awe. But all this is
speculation, and flowed from the ideas excited in me by your
letter, that is full of benevolence both to public and private.
Adieu! Sir; believe that nobody has more esteem for you than is
raised by each letter.

(23) Now first collected.

(24) "Fragments of Ancient Poetry, collected in the Highlands of
Scotland, and translated from the Gaelic, or Erse Language," the
production of James Macpherson; the first presentation to the
world of that literary novelty, which was afterwards to excite so
much discussion and dissension in the literary world.-E.

(25) Dr. Johnson was pretty much of Walpole's opinion. "Of The
Fleece," he says, "which never became popular, and is now
universally neglected, I can say little that is likely to call it
to attention. The woolcomber and the poet appear to me such
discordant natures, that an attempt to bring them together is to
couple the serpent with the fowl."-E.

Letter 13 To Sir Horace Mann.
Strawberry Hill, Feb. 3, 1760 (page 41)

herculaneum is arrived; Caserta(26) is arrived: what magnificence
You Send me! My dear Sir, I can but thank you, and thank you--
oh! yes, I can do more; greedy creature, I can put you in mind,
that you must take care to send me the subsequent volumes of
Herculaneum as they appear, if ever they do appear, which I
suppose is doubtful now that King Carlos(27) is gone to Spain.
One thing pray observe, that I don't beg these scarce books of
you, as a bribe to spur me on to obtain for you your
extra-extraordinaries. Mr. Chute and I admire Caserta; and he at
least is no villanous judge of architecture; some of our English
travellers abuse it; but there are far from striking faults: the
general idea seems borrowed from Inigo Jones's Whitehall, though
without the glaring uglinesses, which I believe have been lent to
Inigo; those plans, I think, were supplied by Lord Burlington,
Kent, and others, to very imperfect sketches of the author. Is
Caserta finished and furnished? Were not the treasures of
Herculaneum to be deposited there?

I am in the vein of drawing upon your benevolence, and shall
proceed. Young Mr. Pitt,(28) nephew of the Pitt, is setting out
for Lisbon with Lord Kinnoul, and will proceed through Granada to
Italy, with his friend Lord Strathmore;(29) not the son, I
believe, of that poor mad Lady Strathmore(30) whom you remember
at Florence. The latter is much commended; I don't know him: Mr.
Pitt is not only a most ingenious Young man, but a most amiable
one: he has already acted in the most noble style-I don't mean
that he took a quarter of Quebec, or invaded a bit of France, or
has spoken in the House of Commons better than DemostheneS'S
nephew: but he has an odious father, and has insisted on glorious
cuttings off of entails on himself, that his father's debts might
be paid and his sisters provided for. My own lawyer,(31) who
knew nothing of my being acquainted with him, spoke to me of him
in raptures--no small merit in a lawyer to comprehend virtue in
cutting off an entail when it was not to cheat; but indeed this
lawyer was recommended to me by your dear brother --no wonder he
is honest. You will now conceive that a letter I have given Mr.
Pitt is not a mere matter of form, but an earnest suit to you to
know one you will like so much. I should indeed have given it
him, were it only to furnish you with an opportunity of
ingratiating yourself with Mr. Pitt's nephew: but I address him
to your heart. Well! but I have heard of another honest lawyer!
The famous Polly, Duchess of Bolton,(32) is dead, having, after a
life of merit, relapsed into her Pollyhood. Two years ago, at
Tunbridge, she picked up an Irish surgeon. When she was dying,
this fellow sent for a lawyer to make her will, but the man,
finding who was to be her heir, instead of her children, refused
to draw it. The Court of Chancery did furnish one other, not
quite so scrupulous, and her three sons have but a thousand
pounds apiece; the surgeon about nine thousand.