Letters Of Horace Walpole Volume Ii Part 20

P.S.--The man who certainly provoked Ireland _to think_, is dead--Lord Sackville.[1]

[Footnote 1: Lord George Sackville Germaine, third son of Lionel [first]

Duke of Dorset, who, when secretary to his father, when Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, gave rise, by his haughty behaviour, to the factions that have ever since disturbed that country, and at last shaken off its submission to this country.--WALPOLE.]

_30th._

I see, by the _Gazette_, that Lord Cowper's pinchbeck princ.i.p.ality is allowed. I wonder his Highness does not desire the Pope to make one of his sons a bishop _in partibus infidelium_.

_BREVITY OF MODERN ADDRESSES--THE OLD d.u.c.h.eSS OF MARLBOROUGH._

TO SIR HORACE MANN.

STRAWBERRY HILL, _Oct._ 4, 1785.

I don't love to transgress my monthly regularity; yet, as you must prefer facts to words, why should I write when I have nothing to tell you? The newspapers themselves in a peaceable autumn coin wonders from Ireland, or live on the accidents of the Equinox. They, the newspapers, have been in high spirits on the prospect of a campaign in Holland; but the Dutch, without pity for the gazetteers of Europe, are said to have submitted to the Emperor's terms: however, the intelligence-merchants may trust that _he_ will not starve them long!

Your neighbour, the Queen of Sardinia, it seems, is dead: but, if there was anything to say about her, you must tell it to me, not I to you; for, till she died, I scarce knew she had been alive.

Our Parliament is put off till after Christmas; so, I have no more resource from domestic politics than from foreign wars. For my own particular, I desire neither. I live here in tranquillity and idleness, can content myself with trifles, and think the world is much the happier when it has nothing to talk of. Most people ask, "Is there any news?"--How can one want to know one does not know what? when anything has happened, one hears it.

There is one subject on which I wish I had occasion to write; I think it long since I heard how you go on: I flatter myself, as I have no letter from you or your nephew, prosperously. I should prefer a letter from him, that you may not have the trouble; and I shall make this the shorter, as a precedent for his not thinking more than a line necessary.

The post does not insist on a certain quant.i.ty; it is content with being paid for whatever it carries--nay, is a little unreasonable, as it doubles its price for a cover that contains nothing but a direction: and now it is the fashion to curtail the direction as much as possible.

Formerly, a direction was an academy of compliments: "To the most n.o.ble and my singularly respected friend," &c., &c.--and then, "Haste! haste, for your life, haste!" Now, we have banished even the monosyllable _To_!

Henry Conway,[1] Lord Hertford's son, who is very indolent, and has much humour, introduced that abridgment. Writing to a Mr. Tighe at the Temple, he directed his letter only thus: "T. Ti., Temple"[2]--and it was delivered! Dr. Bentley was mightily flattered on receiving a letter superscribed "To Dr. Bentley in England." Times are altered; postmen are now satisfied with a hint. One modern retrenchment is a blessing; one is not obliged to study for an ingenious conclusion, as if writing an epigram--oh! no; nor to send compliments that never were delivered. I had a relation who always finished his letters with "his love to all that was near and dear to us," though he did not care a straw for me or any of his family. It was said of old Sarah, d.u.c.h.ess of Marlborough, that she never put dots over her _i's_, to save ink: how she would have enjoyed modern economy in that article! She would have died worth a thousand farthings more than she did--nay, she would have known exactly how many; as Sir Robert Brown[3] did, who calculated what he had saved by never having an orange or lemon on his sideboard. I am surprised that no economist has retrenched second courses, which always consist of the dearest articles, though seldom touched, as the hungry at least dine on the first. Mrs. Leneve,[4] one summer at Houghton, counted thirty-six turkey-pouts[5] that had been served up without being meddled with.

[Footnote 1: Second son of Francis Seymour Conway, first Earl of Hertford.--WALPOLE.]

[Footnote 2: This address was surpa.s.sed towards the end of the reign, by a letter which arrived in London addressed to "Srumfredafi, England;"

and was correctly interpreted at the Post Office as being designed for Sir Humphrey Davy.]

[Footnote 3: A noted miser, who raised a great fortune as a merchant at Venice, though his whole wealth, when he went thither, consisted in one of those vast wigs (a second-hand one, given to him) which were worn in the reign of Queen Anne, and which he sold for five guineas. He returned to England, very rich, in the reign of George II., with his wife and three daughters, who would have been great fortunes. The eldest, about eighteen, fell into a consumption, and, being ordered to ride, her father drew a map of the by-lanes about London, which he made the footman carry in his pocket and observe, that she might ride without paying a turnpike. When the poor girl was past recovery, Sir Robert sent for an undertaker, to cheapen her funeral, as she was not dead, and there was a possibility of her living. He went farther; he called his other daughters, and bade them curtsy to the undertaker, and promise to be his friends; and so they proved, for both died consumptive in two years.--WALPOLE.]

[Footnote 4: A lady who lived with Sir Robert Walpole, to take care of his youngest daughter, Lady Maria, after her mother's death. After Sir Robert's death, and Lady Mary's marriage with Mr. Churchill, she lived with Mr. H. Walpole to her death.--WALPOLE.]

[Footnote 5: As the sons of rajahs in India are called Rajah Pouts, and as turkeys came from the East, quaere if they were not called Turkey-pouts, as an Eastern diminutive?--WALPOLE.]

_5th._

I had written thus far yesterday. This minute I receive your nephew's of Sept. 20th; it is not such an one by any means as I had wished for. He tells me you have had a return of your disorder--indeed, he consoles me with your recovery; but I cannot in a moment shake off the impression of a sudden alarm, though the cause was ceased, nor can a second agitation calm a first on such shattered nerves as mine. My fright is over, but I am not composed. I cannot begin a new letter, and therefore send what I had written. I will only add, what you may be sure I feel, ardent wishes for your perfect health, and grateful thanks to your nephew for his attention--he is rather your son; but indeed he is Gal.'s son, and that is the same thing. How I love him for his attendance on you! and how very kind he is in giving me accounts of you! I hope he will continue, and I ask it still more for your sake than for my own, that you may not think of writing yourself. If he says but these words, "My uncle has had no return of his complaint," I shall be satisfied--satisfied!--I shall be quite happy! Indeed, indeed, I ask no more.

_LADY CRAVEN--MADAME PIOZZI--"THE ROLLIAD"--HERSCHEL'S ASTRONOMICAL DISCOVERY._

TO SIR HORACE MANN.

BERKELEY SQUARE, _Oct._ 30, 1785.

I am a contradiction, yet very naturally so; I wish you not to write yourself, and yet am delighted when I receive a letter in your own hand: however, I don't desire it should be of four pages, like this last of the 11th. When I have had the gout, I have always written by proxy. You will make me ashamed, if you don't use the precedent. Your account of yourself is quite to my satisfaction. I approve, too, of your not dining with your company. Since I must be old and have the gout, I have long turned those disadvantages to my own account, and plead them to the utmost when they will save me from doing anything I dislike. I am so lame, or have such a sudden pain, when I do not care to do what is proposed to me! n.o.body can tell how rapidly the gout may be come, or be gone again; and then it is so pleasant to have had the benefit, and none of the anguish!

I did send you a line last week in the cover of a letter to Lady Craven,[1] which I knew would sufficiently tell your quickness how much I shall be obliged to you for any attentions to her. I thought her at Paris, and was surprised to hear of her at Florence. She has, I fear, been _infinitamente_ indiscreet; but what is that to you or me? She is very pretty, has parts, and is good-natured to the greatest degree; has not a grain of malice or mischief (almost always the a.s.sociates, in women, of tender hearts), and never has been an enemy but to herself.

For that ridiculous woman Madame Piozzi,[2] and t'other more impertinent one, of whom I never heard before, they are like the absurd English dames with whom we used to divert ourselves when I was at Florence. As to your little knot of poets, I do not hold the c.o.c.ks higher than the hens; nor would I advise them to repatriate. We have at present here a most incomparable set, not exactly known by their names, but who, till the dead of summer, kept the town in a roar, and, I suppose, will revive by the meeting of Parliament. They have poured forth a torrent of odes, epigrams, and part of an imaginary epic poem, called the "Rolliad,"[3]

with a commentary and notes, that is as good as the "Dispensary"[4] and "Dunciad," with more ease. These poems are all anti-ministerial, and the authors very young men, and little known or heard of before. I would send them, but you would want too many keys: and indeed I want some myself; for, as there are continually allusions to Parliamentary speeches and events, they are often obscure to me till I get them explained; and besides, I do not know several of the satirised heroes even by sight: however, the poetry and wit make amends, for they are superlative.

[Footnote 1: Lady Craven, _nee_ Berkeley, had given abundant cause for scandal during her husband's life, which did not abate when, a month after his death, she married the Margrave of Ans.p.a.ch.]

[Footnote 2: Mme. Piozzi, the Mrs. Thrale of Boswell's "Life of Johnson." Mr. Thrale was a brewer, the founder of the great firm now known as Barclay and Perkins. She was many years younger than he; and, after his death, she married Signor Piozzi, a professional musician of eminence. Johnson, who had been an habitual guest of her husband and her at their villa at Streatham, set the fashion of condemning this second marriage as a disgraceful _mesalliance_; but it is not very easy to see in what respect it was so. In social position she had certainly had the advantage over Mr. Thrale, being the daughter of a Carnarvonshire baronet of ancient family. But a first-rate musician was surely the equal of a brewer. After Johnson's death she published a volume of her reminiscences of him, which may be allowed to have been worthy neither of him nor of her, and which was ridiculed by Peter Pindar in "A Town Eclogue," in which the rivals Bozzy and Piozzi, on Virgil's principle--_Alternis dicetis, amant alterna Camaenae_--relate in turn anecdotes of Johnson's way of life, his witty sayings, &c., &c. Sir John Hawkins, as judge of the contest, gives neither a prize; tells the lady, "Sam's Life, dear ma'am, will only _d.a.m.n your own_;" calls the gentleman "a chattering magpie;" and--

Then to their pens and paper rush'd the twain, To kill the mangled RAMBLER o'er again.]

[Footnote 3: In 1785 the wits of Brooks's, being much disappointed at the result of the political conflict of 1784, gave some vent to their spleen in verse. For their subject they selected an imaginary epic, of which they gave fict.i.tious extracts, and for their hero they took the Member for Devonshire, John Rolle, invoking him--

Ill.u.s.trious Rolle! oh may thy honoured name Roll down distinguished on the rolls of fame.

It is a little odd that they abstained from similar puns on Pitt and _pit_; but their indignation was chiefly directed at his youth as ill-suited to his powers--

A sight to make surrounding nations stare, A kingdom trusted to a schoolboy's care.

The chief contributors were Burke's friend, Dr. Lawrence; Sheridan's brother-in-law, Tickell; General Fitzpatrick, Mr. G. Ellis, Lord G.

Townshend, and General Burgoyne.]

[Footnote 4: "The Dispensary" was a poem by a physician named Garth, to advocate the cause of the physicians in a quarrel between them and the apothecaries about the price to be charged for medicines. Johnson, in his "Lives of the Poets," allows it the credit of smooth and free versification, but denies it that of elegance. "No pa.s.sage falls below mediocrity, and few rise above it." It may be doubted whether Byron himself could have risen high "above it" on subjects so unpoetical as pills and black-doses.]

News I have none, wet or dry, to send you: politics are stagnated, and pleasure is not come to town. You may be sure I am glad that Caesar is baffled; I neither honour nor esteem him. If he is preferring his nephew to his brother, it is using the latter as ill as the rest of the world.

Mrs. Damer is again set out for the Continent to-day, to avoid the winter, which is already begun severely; we have had snow twice. Till last year, I never knew snow in October since I can remember; which is no short time. Mrs. Damer has taken with her her cousin Miss Campbell, daughter of poor Lady William, whom you knew, and who died last year.

Miss Campbell has always lived with Lady Aylesbury, and is a very great favourite and a very sensible girl. I believe they will proceed to Italy, but it is not certain. If they come to Florence, the Grand Duke should beg Mrs. Damer to give him something of her statuary; and it would be a greater curiosity than anything in his Chamber of Painters.

She has executed several marvels since you saw her; and has lately carved two colossal heads for the bridge at Henley, which is the most beautiful one in the world, next to the Ponte di Trinita, and was princ.i.p.ally designed by her father, General Conway. Lady Spencer draws--incorrectly indeed, but has great expression. Italy probably will stimulate her, and improve her attention. You see we blossom in ruin!

Poetry, painting, statuary, architecture, music, linger here,

on this sea-encircled coast (GRAY),

as if they knew not whither to retreat farther for shelter, and would not trust to the despotic patronage of the Attilas, Alarics, Amalasuntas of the North! They leave such heroic scourges to be decorated by the Voltaires and D'Alemberts of the Gauls, or wait till by the improvement of balloons they may be transported to some of those millions of worlds that Herschel[1] is discovering every day; for this new Columbus has thrown open the great gates of astronomy, and neither Spanish inquisitors nor English Nabobs will be able to torture and ransack the new regions and their inhabitants. Adieu!

[Footnote 1: Herschel, having constructed the largest telescope that at that time had ever been seen, in 1781 had given proof of its value by the discovery of the _Georgium sidus_.]

_MRS. YEARSLEY--MADAME PIOZZI--GIBBON--"LE MARIAGE DE FIGARO."_

TO MISS HANNAH MORE.[1]

[Footnote 1: Miss H. More was a remarkable woman. She was the daughter of the village schoolmaster of Stapleton, near Bristol. But though she had no higher education than he could give her, she soon began to show a considerable literary talent. Her first compositions were dramas, one of which, "Percy," Garrick accepted for the stage, where for a season it had fair success. But she soon quitted that line for works of morality, intended to promote the religious improvement of society in her day. The most celebrated of them was "Coelebs in Search of a Wife." But some of the tales which she published in "The Cheap Repository," a series of stories for the common people, had a greater sale. One, "The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain," was so popular that it is said that a million copies of it were sold. Her talents led to her acquaintance being cultivated by such men as Johnson, Reynolds, Burke, and Bishop Porteus; and her exercise of them was so profitable, that though she gave large sums in charity, she left a fortune of 30,000.]

STRAWBERRY HILL, _Oct._ 14, 1787.

My dear Madam,--I am shocked for human nature at the repeated malevolence of this woman! [Mrs. Yearsley.] The rank soil of riches we are accustomed to see overrun with seeds and thistles; but who could expect that the kindest seeds sown on poverty and dire misfortunes should meet with nothing but a rock at bottom? Catherine de' Medici, suckled by hopes and transplanted to a throne, seems more excusable.

Thank heaven, Madam, for giving you so excellent a heart; ay, and so good a head. You are not only benevolence itself, but, with fifty times the genius of a Yearsley, you are void of vanity. How strange, that vanity should expel grat.i.tude! Does not the wretched woman owe her fame to you, as well as her affluence? I can testify your labours for both.

Dame Yearsley reminds me of the Troubadours, those vagrants whom I used to admire till I knew their history; and who used to pour out trumpery verses, and flatter or abuse accordingly as they were housed and clothed, or dismissed to the next parish. Yet you did not set this person in the stocks, after procuring an annuity for her! I beg your pardon for renewing so disgusting a subject, and will never mention it again. You have better amus.e.m.e.nt; you love good works, a temper superior to revenge.