THE HON. HORACE WALPOLE TO THE REV. W. COLE. Berkeley Square, Feb. 5, 1780. I HAVE been turning over the new second volume of the Biographia, and find the additions very poor and lean performances. The lives, entirely new, are partial and flattering, being contributions of the friends of those whose lives are recorded. This publication, made at a time when I have lived to see several of my contemporaries deposited in this national temple of Fame, has made me smile, and made me reflect that many preceding authors, who have been installed there with much respect, may have been as trifling personages as those we have known, and now behold consecrated to memory. Three or four have struck me particularly, as Dr. Birch, who was a worthy good natured soul, full of industry and activity, and running about, like a young setting dog, in quest of any thing new or old, and with no parts, taste, or judgment. Then there is Dr. Blackwell, the most impertinent literary coxcomb upon earth. But the editor has been so just, as to insert a merited satire on his Court of Augustus. The third is Dr. Browne, that mountebank, who for a little time made as much noise by his "Estimate," as ever quack did by a nostrum. I do not know whether I ever told you how much I was struck the only time I ever saw him. You know one object of the anathemas of his Estimate was the Italian opera: yet did I find him, one evening in Passion week, accompanying some of the Italian singers at a concert at Lady Carlisle's. A clergyman, no doubt, is not obliged to be on his knees the whole week before Easter, and music and a concert are harmless amusements; but when Cato or Calvin are out of character, reformation becomes ridiculous. But poor Dr. Browne was mad, and therefore might be in earnest, whether he played the fool or the reformer. You recollect, perhaps, the threat of Dr. Kippis to me, which is to be executed on my father, for my calling the first edition of the Biographia the Vindicatio Britannica. But observe how truth emerges at last! In this new volume, he confesses that the article of Lord Arlington, which I had specified as one of the most censurable, is the one most deserving that censure, and that the character of Lord Arlington is palliated beyond all truth or reason. Words stronger than mine: yet mine deserved to draw vengeance on my father! So a Presbyterian divine inverts divine judgment, and visits the sins of the children on the parents! Cardinal Beaton's character, softened in the first edition, gentle Dr. Kippis pronounces detestable. Yet was I to blame for hinting at such defects in that work! and yet my words are quoted to show that Lord Orrery's poetry was ridiculously bad. In like manner, Mr. D. Cumberland, who assumes the whole honour of publishing his grandfather's Lucan, and does not deign to mention its being published at Strawberry Hill (though, by the way, I believe it will be oftener purchased for having been printed there than for wearing Mr. Cumberland's name to the dedication), and yet he quotes me for having praised his ancestor in one of my publications. These little instances of pride and spleen divert me, and then make me sadly reflect on human weaknesses. I am very apt myself to like what flatters my opinions or passions, and to reject scornfully what thwarts them, even in the same persons. The longer one lives, the more one discovers one's own ugliness in the features of others. Yours ever, H. WALPOLE. P. S.-I remember two other instances where my impartiality, or at least my sincerity, have exposed me to double censure. Many, perhaps you, have condemned my severity on Charles I. Yet the late Mr. Hollis wrote against me in the newspapers, for condemning the republicans for the destruction of ancient monuments. Some blamed me for undervaluing the Flemish and Dutch painters in my preface to the Odes Walpolianæ. Barry, the painter, because I laughed at his extravagances, says, in his rejection of that school," But I leave them to be admired by the Hon. H. W. and such judges." Would not one think I had been their champion? THE HON. HORACE WALPOLE TO THE Strawberry Hill, June 15, 1780. You may like to know one is alive, dear sir, after a massacre and the conflagration of a capital. I was in it both on the Friday, and on the black Wednesday, the most horrible night I ever beheld, and which, for six hours together, I expected to end in half the town being reduced to ashes. I can give you little account of the origin of this shocking affair. Negligence was certainly its nurse, and religion only its godmother. The ostensible author is in the Tower. Twelve or fourteen thousand men have quashed all tumults; and as no bad account is come from the country, except for a moment at Bath, and as eight days have passed, nay more, since the commencement, I flatter myself the whole nation is shocked at the scene, and that, if plan there was, it was laid only in and for the metropolis. The lowest and most villanous of the people, and to no great amount, were almost the sole actors. I hope your electioneering rioting has not nor will mix in these tumults. It would be most absurd; for Lord Rockingham, the Duke of Richmond, Sir George Savile, and Mr. Burke, the patrons of toleration, were devoted to destruction as much as the ministers. The rails torn from Sir George's house were the chief weapons and instruments of the mob. For the honour of the nation, I should be glad to have it proved that the French were the engineers. You and I have lived too long for our comfort,-shall we close our eyes in peace? You and I, that can amuse ourselves with our books and papers, feel as much indignation at the turbulent as they have scorn for us. It is hard at least, that they who disturb nobody, can have no asylum in which to pursue their innocent indolence. Who is secure against Jack Straw and a whirlwind? How I abominate Mr. Bankes and Dr. Solander, who routed the poor Otaheitans out of the centre of the ocean, and carried our abominable passions among them! Not even that poor little speck could escape European restlessness. Och! I have seen many tempestuous scenes, and outlived them! The present prospect is too thick to see through, -it is well hope never forsakes us. Adieu.Yours, most sincerely, H. W. EDMUND BURKE TO HIS UNCLE, MR. NAGLE. Wimpole Street, Cavendish Square, 11 October, 1759. DEAR SIR, My brother has been beforehand with me in almost every thing I could say. My conduct stands in need of as many apologies as his, but I am afraid our apologies might be almost as troublesome as our neglects. All I can say is, that I have been, I think it is now eleven years from the county of Cork, yet my remembrance of my friends there is as fresh as if I had left it yesterday. My gratitude for their favours, and my |