PERSONAL

I find Mr. Walpole then made some mention of me to you; yes, we are together again. It is about a year, I believe, since he wrote to me, to offer it, and there has been (particularly of late), in appearance, the same kindness and confidence almost as of old. What were his motives, I cannot yet guess. What were mine, you will imagine and perhaps blame me. However as yet I neither repent, nor rejoice overmuch, but I am pleased.-GRAY, THOMAS, 1750, Letter to John Chute, Oct. 12.

I was well acquainted with Mr. Walpole at Florence, and indeed he was particularly civil to me. I am encouraged to ask a favor of him, if I did not know, that few people have so good memories as to remember, so many years backwards as have passed since I have seen him. If he has treated the character of Queen Elizabeth with disrespect, all the women should tear him in pieces, for abusing the glory of her sex.-MONTAGU, LADY MARY WORTLEY, 1758, To the Countess of Bute, Oct. 10; Works, ed. Dallaway, vol. v, p. 62. I am certainly the greatest philosopher in the world, without ever having thought of being so: always employed, and never busy; eager about trifles, and indifferent to everything serious. Well, if it is not philosophy, at least it is content.-WALPOLE, HORACE, 1774, To Hon. H. S. Conway, Aug. 18; Letters, ed. Cunningham, vol. VI, p. 109.

When Mr. Horace Walpole came from abroad about the year 1746, he was much of a Fribble in dress and manner. Mr. Colman, at that time a schoolboy, had some occasion to pay him a visit. He told me he has a strong recollection of the singularity of his manner; and that it was then said that Garrick had him in thought when he wrote the part of Fribble, in "Miss in her Teens." But I doubt this much; for there is a character in a play called "Tunbridge Wells," in which that of Fribble seems to be evidently formed. However, Garrick might have had Mr. Walpole in his thoughts. This gentleman (Mr. Walpole) is still somewhat singular in manner and appearance; but it seems only a singularity arising from a very delicate and weak constitution, and from living quite retired among his books, and much with ladies. He is always lively and ingenious; never very solid or

energetic. He appears to be very fond of French manners, authors, &c., &c., and I believe keeps up to this day a correspondence with many of the people of fashion in Paris. His love of French manners, and his reading so much of their language, have I think infected his style a little, which is not always so entirely English as it ought to be. He is, I think, a very humane and amiable man.-MALONE, EDMOND, 1782? Maloniana, ed. Prior, p. 86.

The letter you sent me of Horace Walpole's is brilliant, and, from its subject, inevitably interesting; but do not expect that I can learn to esteem that fastidious and unfeeling being, to whose insensibility we owe the extinction of the greatest poetic luminary Chatterton, if we may judge from the brightness of its dawn, that ever rose in our, or perhaps any other hemisphere. This fine wit of Strawberry Hill, is of that order of mortals who swarm, always swarmed, and always will swarm in refined states; whose eyes of admiration are in their backs, and who, consequently, see nothing worthy their attention before, or on either side of them; and who, therefore, weary, sicken, and disgust people whose sensibilities are strong and healthy, by their eternal cant. about the great have beens, and the little are's. SEWARD, MISS, 1787, Letter to Hardinge, Nov. 21.

Poor Lord Orford! I could not help mourning for him as if I had not expected it. But twenty years' unclouded kindness and pleasant correspondence cannot be given up without emotion. I am not sorry now that I never flinched from his ridicule or attacks, nor suffered them to pass without rebuke. At our last meeting I made him promise to buy Law's "Serious Call." His playful wit, his various knowledge, his polished manners, alas! what avail they now? The most serious thoughts are awakened. O that he had known and believed the things that belonged to his peace. My heart is much oppressed with this reflection.-MORE, HANNAH, 1797, Letters.

When viewed from behind, he had somewhat of a boyish appearance, owing to the form of his person, and the simplicity of his dress. His laugh was forced and uncouth, and even his smile not the most pleasing. His walk was enfeebled by the gout; which, if the editor's memory

do not deceive, he mentioned that he had been tormented with since the age of twenty-five; adding, at the same time, that it was no hereditary complaint, his father, Sir Robert Walpole, who always drank ale, never having known that disorder, and far less his other parent. This painful complaint not only affected his feet, but attacked his hands to such a degree that his fingers were always swelled and deformed, and discharged large chalkstones once or twice a year: upon which occasions he would observe, with a smile, that he must set up an inn, for he could chalk up a score with more ease and rapidity than any man in England.PINKERTON, JOHN, 1799, Walpoliana.

The whole spirit of this man was penury. Enjoying an affluent income he only appeared to patronise the arts which amused his tastes, employing the meanest artists, at reduced prices, to ornament his own works, an economy which he bitterly reprehends in others who were compelled to practise it. He gratified his avarice. at the expense of his vanity; the strongest passion must prevail. It was the simplicity of childhood in Chatterton to imagine Horace Walpole could be a patron-but it is melancholy to record that a slight protection might have saved such a youth. Gray abandoned this man of birth and rank in the midst of their journey through Europe; Mason broke with him; even his humble correspondent Cole, this "friend of forty years," was often sent away in dudgeon; and he quarrelled with all the authors and artists he had ever been acquainted with. The Gothic castle at Strawberry-hill was rarely graced with living genius-there the greatest was Horace Walpole himself. DISRAELI, ISAAC, 1812-13, The Pain of Fastidious Egotism, Calamities of Authors.

He certainly was proud of being considered as a sort of patron of literature, and a friend to literary men, but he did not choose to purchase the pre-eminence at a higher price than a little flattery and praise, and a pudding neither over large nor over solid. On his first invitation to dinner with his Lordship, he accompanied Mr. K. There were no other guests. The Sexagenarian presumed that he should for once enjoy the luxury of a splendid dinner, and prepared himself accordingly. Dinner was served, when to

the poor author's astonishment, one dish only smoked upon the noble board, and that too, as ill luck would have it, was a species of fish not very agreeable to the palate of the guest. He waited, however, in patience, and the fish was succeeded by a leg of mutton. Wae worth the man, who, in the pride and haughtiness of his heart, presumes to say anything to the disparagement of a leg of mutton. The author, however, thought that he might have a leg of mutton at home, and taking it for granted, that at a nobleman's table, a second course would succeed, where there would be some tit-bit to pamper his appetite, he was very sparingly helped. Alas! nothing else made its appearance. "Well then," exclaimed the disappointed visitor, "I must make up with cheese." His Lordship did not eat cheese. So to the great amusement of his companion, the poor author returned hungry, disconcerted, and half angry. - BELOE, WILLIAM, 1817, The Sexagenarian, vol. I, pp. 277, 278.

His figure was, as every one knows, not merely tall, but more properly long, and slender to excess; his complexion, and particularly his hands, of a most unhealthy paleness. I speak of him before the year 1772. His eyes were remarkably bright and penetrating, very dark and lively: his voice was not so strong; but his tones were extremely pleasant, and (if I may so say) highly gentlemanly. I do not remember his common gait: he always entered a room in that style of affected delicacy which fashion had then made almost natural; chapeau bras between his hands, as if he wished to compress it, or under his arm; knees bent; and feet on tiptoe, as if afraid of a wet floor. His dress in visiting was most usually (in summer when I most saw him) a lavender suit; the waistcoat embroidered with a little silver, or of white silk worked in the tambour; partridge partridge silk stockings; and gold buckles; ruffles and frill, generally lace. I remember, when a child, thinking him very much under-dressed if at any time, except in mourning, he wore hemmed cambric. In summer, no powder; but his wig combed straight, and showing his smooth pale forehead, and queued behind; in winter, powder. - HAWKINS, LETITIA MATILDA, 1823, Anecdotes, Biographical Sketches and Memoirs, vol. 1.