The Press. — London, England, 1858-02-27 00:00:00

THE PRESS, FEBRUARY 27,1858. the rest, this is a good library book. There are a few new letters, and a note or two from the MSS. of Croker, who was a link between Walpole's age and our own. In our general views about the character and genius of Walpole, we take up an inter mediate position, somewhere between Lord Macaulay and Miss Berry. Macaulay's esti. mate of him is unjust, because ho was on the look out, more suo, for good striking contrasts ; and he made his Walpole piquant by making him an antithesis. On this theory, it was necessary, among other things, to exaggerate the trifling character of his interest in politics ; but follow him in the two volumes before us, and you find him sincerely wrapped up in the American war, and with a very keen sense of the future importance of the American people. In fact, Walpole had far more real practical good sense—downright English sa gacity—than nine-tenths of those who have favoured us with so much satire on his relish for trifles. He was a trifler for fear of' being thought to have failed in higher things. He affected to set supreme importance upon costly baubles because he was afraid that people would say that the son of Sir Robert Walpole had failed in Parliament or letters. He wore a mask; but he knew perfectly well what his real face was, and would have ad mirably turned the laugh against any man who supposed that he did not know the diffe rence between an interest in China and an interest in the Constitution. His was not the highest philosophy, but it was a philosophy— not a mere coxcombry from which any clumsy hand can draw away the curtain. The weak parts in his character let in good as well as evil. The sensitiveness which made him mentally a friend of ridicule made him also zealous in the cause of poor Admiral Byng ; the vanity which kept him alive to observa tion also sharpened him to observe : it was like that of the peacock, which has, yet, a hundred eyes in its tail. Suppose we draw on the present volumes of his letters for some illustrations of our view? Many are to Mason, a man whom we cannot bring ourselves to like—not because he was a bigoted Whig, merely (old Johnson used to say that he was both " Whig " and "Prig"), but because there was something coarse and hard about the man's mind—an element which prevented us from being surprised when we found his tragedies unreadable. Well, Mason is wonderfully taken up by Walpole, who ranks the " Heroic Epistle " (in which we never could find above one good line) above the " Dunciad." Here we have a specimen of the peculiar mixed character of Walpole. He loves literature ; he relishes Mason's talents— hich were, we are bound to say, remarkable; and yet he cannot but depreciate other men whom, with his judgment, he surely ought to have ranked at least as high as Mason. Fancy his speaking, as in the following paragraphs, of Dr. Johnson and Goldsmith : My last volume of the " Anecdotes of Painting " has long been finished, and as a debt shall some time or other be published, but there I take my leave of ➢fessieurs the readers. Let Or. Johnson please this age with the fustian of his style, and the meanness of his spirit; both are good and great enough for the taste and practice predominant. Dr. Goldsmith is dead of a purple fever, and I think might have been saved if he bad continued James's powder, which had had much effect, but his physician interposed. His numerous friends neglected him shamefully at last, as if they had no business with him when it WAS too serious to laugh. He had lately written epitaphs for them all, some of which hurt, and perhaps made them not sorry that his own was the first necessary. The poor soul had some times parts, though never common sense. What is the explanation of this sort of thing from a man that neither wanted sense nor feeling? It was a kind of mockery assumed to disguise his own consciousness that his literary reputation was not equal to his am bition. Not that he was to be deceived by the success which he really did get, and which in its way was considerable ; he had high and good dews of literature, and knew that he had really failed in deserving or acquiring a fame of sufficient dignity. So, he took refuge in his quality, and in bons-mots and painted glass, and tried to be a trifler. What makes him such a peculiar study (and we consider him a diffi cult character) is, that he did not succeed ; that even when he gossips, he is a thinker, not much beluw Rochefoucauld or Pope ; that the flashes of his wit can be seen by, as well as being pretty for their own own sake; and that the very contortions of his agonised egotism present a kind of dignity as a spectacle—ate not the flutteriugs of a butterfly, but the struggles of a nature that with much weakness has something noble in it. Perhaps the reader will find a confirmation of the fore going in the following passages. We take the first from a letter to the Hon. W. C. Conway in MO:— Whoever reported that I was writing anything, must have been so totally unfounded, that they either blundered by guessing without reason, or knew they lied—and that could not be with any kind Intention ; though saying I am going to do what I am not going to do, is wretched enough. Whatever is said of me without trail', anybody is welcome to believe that pleases. In fact, though I have scarce a settled purpose about anything, I think I shall never write any more. I have written a great deal too much, unless I had written better, and I know I should now only write still worse. One's talent, whatever it is, does not improve at near sixty—yet, if I liked it, I dare to say a good reason would not stop my inclination ;—but I am grown most indolent in that respect, and most absolutely indifferent to every purpose of vanity. Yet without vanity lam become still prouder and more contemptuous. I have a contempt for my country men that makes me despise their approbation. The applause of slaves and of the foolish mad is below ambi tion. Mine is the haughtiness of an ancient Briton, that cannot write what would please this age, and would not if he could. Whatever happens in America, this country is undone. I desire to be reckoned of the last age, and to he thought to have lived to be superannuated, preserving my senses only for myself and fur the few I value. I cannot aspire to be traduced like Algernon Sydney, and content myself with sacrificing to him amongst my tares. Un- alterable in my principles, careless about most things below essentials, indulging myself in trifles by system, annihi lating myself by choice, but dreading folly at an unseemly age, I contrive to pass my time agreeably enough, yet see its termination approach without anxiety. The second occurs in one of those to Mason of the year 1773. He has been reading the first volume of Mason's Gray—his best book, and one which will always be memorable as having suggested the form of Boswell's " Life of Johnson" : Of my two friends and me, I only make a most indif ferent figure. I do not mean with regard to parts or talents ; I never one instant of my life had the superlative vanity of ranking myself with them. They nct only pos sessed genius, which I have not, great learning, which is to be acquired, and which I never acquired, but both Gray and West had abilities marvellously premature. What wretched boyish stuff would my contemporary letters to them appear, if they existed, and which they both were so good-natured as to destroy ! What unpoetic t hingx were mine at that age, some of which unfortunately do exist, and which I yet could never surpass; but it is not in that light I consider my own position. We had not got to Calais before Gray was dissatisfied, for I was a boy, and he, though infinitely more a man, was not enough so to make allowances. Hence am I never mentioned once with kindness in his letters to West. This hurts me for him as well as myself. For the oblique censures on my want of curiosity, I have nothing to say. The fact was true—my eyes were not purely classic—and, though I am now a dull antiquary, my age then made me taste pleasures and diver sions merely modern. I say this to you, and to you only, in confidence. Ido not object to a syllable. I know how trifling, bow useless, how blameable I have been, and sub• mit to hear my faults, both because I have had faults, and because I hope I have corrected some of them ; and though Gray hints at my unwillingness to be told them, I can say truly that to the end of his life he neither spared the repri mand nor mollified the terms, as you and others know, and I believe have felt. There is heart, if there is also an inferior element, in these words ; and a man must be somewhat harsh, we think, who refuses to hear its beating through Horace's laced waistcoat. As for the literary style and merit of the letters, it would be almost supeefltous to analyse these, and quite superfluous to praise them. The letters have a place of their own in our literature, as safe as that of Pope or Goldsmith ; and, what is more, so peculiar a place that nothing is ever likely to shake them from it. Other men's letters aro in teresting because of their works—Walpole's letters are his works. They represent his whole genius ; and as, besides, some egotism is inevitable in letter writing, they also repre sent himself. They are, of course, the result of a highly artificial cultivation—but then it is that degree of cultivation which, like the best breeding, has come back to nature again; so that they have all the ease of a girl prat tling to her sweetheart, Red all the finish of Talleyrand talking to Louis XVIII. There is a new letter in the sixth volume to Lord Nune ham, from which we shall quote a few pieces for the sake of its novelty, and also because it is quite iu his lightest manner:— though we have heard of the name of Black more as a poet, we never saw it associated with a Chief Justicealup. The charm of contemporary history consists in its bringing before the reader a new and close view of the great actors in the politics of the time. But Sir A. Alison seems to be deficient in the knowledge required ; and we must observe that the various French writers who have produced so many contemporary narratives all lived at Paris, and were them selves engaged in the strife. Their views might be distorted by passion and antipathy to individuals, but their knowledge was first hand. English contemporary history neces sarily has much to do with parliamentary affairs, and it can be best written by a member of Parliament or by some well-informed journalist residing in London The summaries of statistics by Sir A. Alison are always valuable, and his fairness to both sides is highly honourable to his mind, and can scarcely be lauded too much. Our space will not allow us here to criticise his views on Foreign Affairs, but we may possibly refer to them another day. The Letters of Horace Walpole, Earl of Orford. Edited by Peter Cunningham, F.S.A. Now First Chronologically Arranged. In Nine Vols. Vols. VI. and VII. London : Bentley. Ma. CUNNINGHAM has now brought us to a period of great interest, both in the careers of Walpole and of England. Walpole begins to feel that he is growing old, and the effect of the change on his mind is curious to watch. England is engaged in a war, unprosperous indeed, but pregnant with great results—the American war—and all Europe is simmering, with bubbles of infinite variety, towards the great boiling-over which at the end of the last century changed the face of the world. It is amusing to follow the elderly philosophic wit down the decline of life. His character gets more sharply marked, just as his features did by advancing age. His wit defies even the gout. His gossip flows as abundantly as ever; and, altogether, a Nestor whose expe rience is delivered in epigrams is surely an interesting personage. But, before we say anything further about these two volumes, a word on the editor. Mr. Cunningham has done good service to English literature, and can therefore afford to have it E,aid that here he is but performing an ordi nary task in an ordinary manner. To arrange the letters in order of time is no great feat, and he annotates them but indifferently. Many notes can only claim the merit of saving the reader a reference to Sir Egerton Brydges' edition of Collins's Peerage. Others explain what is obvious. Some seem only to be printed that, our editor may have the pleasure of seeing what Tom Moore calls The one loved name placed in small capitals (" CUNNINGHAM ") at the end of the sentence. For example, when Walpole says to Mason " we should have been ' " very happy with our hips and haws and "racing days, and called it luxury," is it really necessary that our eye should be dragged down to the bottom of the page to read " From " Addison—CUNNISOHAM" ? Would a man who did not know that hackneyed phrase be likely to read Walpole at all? The truth is, that we have here a Walpolian editor without anything wh a t ever o f a Walpolian mind. Quickness—d e li cac y —li g ht, sharp penetration —are not Mr. Cunningham's characteristics, though we repeat that ho has valuable ones. Ile is an elephant who cannot pick up a pin ; a sounder antiquary than Walpole, but fo: removed from sympathy with the peculiar brilliance of his mind. We are sorry to re 'Hark that he does Walpole a great injustice at p. 71 of Vol. VI. Horace has been irrita ting antique verse in some lines to Lady saory, whereupon Peter gratuitously observes, He is not so apt as Chatterton, of whom he thouyht so li t tl e. " N ow , W a lp o l e s e vera l times, in these very volumes, expresses the highest admiration of Chatterton's parts, in language emphatic enough even to satisfy Keats, who dedicated " Endymion " to the Young poet's memory. Such carelessness will not help Mr. Cunningham's reputation. For