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ANOTHER book on the interminable and never wearying theme of Horace Walpole, the acknowledged Emperor of Gossips, and King of Letter-writers. Age cannot wither, nor custom stale the infinite variety" of reminiscences connected with this name. Unlike Newton, whose mighty faculties achieved their great discoveries in science at a comparatively early period of life, and then reposed, as if worn out or wearied, the lord of Strawberry Hill (though in a much inferior grade) continued to lead in his peculiar walk with undiminished spirit, until the full term allotted by the psalmist; as lively in old age as in vigorous manhood, with imagination as fresh and green in the winter of seventy, as in the budding spring of seventeen. Not even the "arthritic tyranny" of gout, so remorselessly exercised over him in his latter years, could totally subdue his patience, or extinguish his love of elegant society, until just before the curtain was ready to drop, when, as the present writer informs us," he became a fretful valetudinarian, verging on imbecility, complaining of those who were kindest, and blaming those who had never been in fault." The querulous helplessness of this "last scene of all," with the neglect that too often accompanies existence, protracted to the extreme period when strength becomes labour and sorrow, verify the saying of the ancient Greek, as echoed again by our modern poet, "whom the gods love die young."

When we first glanced at the titlepage, from constant familiarity with the subject, we took this for a new or enlarged edition of some preceding book, rather than an original one, and were a little startled when assured by the editor in his preface, that with the exception of a few meagre sketches

prefixed to his works by Pinkerton, Sir Walter Scott, and Lord Dover, the biography of Horace Walpole is now for the first time presented to the public.

The life of a wealthy, fashionable man of letters, such as the Earl of Orford, indulging in perfect idleness (the dolce far niente), when not choosing to canter a little on a favorite hobby-horse -a "voluptuous virtuoso" as he has been called, more disposed to sedentary than to active pursuits,-is not likely to abound in stirring incidents by flood and field; although he once captured a housebreaker, and another time was nearly run over by a coach-and-six while attempting the chivalrous feat of carrying a young lady over a wet style. The latter catastrophe was superseded by rather an equivocal tableau, not very delicately described in his own letters. But want of delicacy, even among the highest classes, was one of the smaller vices of the last age. Twice, also, Walpole was in danger of being drowned while acting" Squire O'Dames," a character he was partial to, although not formed by nature for a hero. The drawing-room of a predominant duchess, or the snuggery of a select literary circle, were his more legitimate fields of distinction. The character of his mind will be traced, not in deeds but in words. His genius displays itself in his conversation, writings, and epistolary correspondence. From these sources, and many similar ones, emanating from his chosen companions, we feel ourselves as intimately acquainted with Horace Walpole, as familiar with his costume, slight effeminate figure, style of talk, turn of humour, and other personal peculiarities, as if we had known and associated with him all our lives. We accompany him from Arlington-street to White's, where we meet George Selwyn and "the wits"

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of the day; back again to Arlingtonstreet, and the next morning in his wellappointed coach to Strawberry Hill, where we are sure to meet our merry old acquaintance, Kitty Clive, before whose resolute independence of spirit Garrick trembled in the plentitude of his autocracy. The Clive who informed Roscius that she was richer than he, as she knew when she had enough, which he never would; who, when he played the crocodile at parting, told him to his teeth, he hated and was glad to get rid of her, and would light up candles for joy only it would cost him sixpence; who never was absent from the Strawberry Hill parties, loved and honoured by the lord of the castle; who enlivened the whole circle by her exhaustless fun and anecdote, while she kept retired countesses in order, and frightened them from cheating at whist.

Without much stretch of imagination we can embody Horace Walpole in the flesh, seated on the sofa before us, opposite to the table at which we are writing. We fancy nothing new can be told us of one of whom we already know so much. He wants no smirking, obsequious Boswell, with busy, diurnal note-book to perpetuate the memory of a cough or a sneeze which otherwise would be lost. On closing these two very agreeable volumes, the impression left on the mind scarcely does justice to the author. We feel as if we had been refreshing memory on matters we knew before, rather than adding to our stock of information. But all to be found previously in many places, is here for the first time collected together and brought again before us at one view in a condensed, perspicuous, and animated narrative. The introduction of other characters and incidents blending with the individual biography, is skilfully managed, rendering the picture more complete, and greatly adding to its interest and variety. When we consider the number of the dramatis persona introduced, and the many subjects discussed, the book appears unusually short, and in no degree deteriorated by the leaven of dulness. This is saying a great deal in favour of two portly octavo volumes in these abbreviating days, when anything beyond an ordinary pamphlet terrifies the reading public into a bibliophobia. But we must take leave, before we proceed further, to enter a gentle protest against a mysterious practice becoming frequent and

fashionable; namely, that of ushering new publications into the world with the name of the author hidden under the ægis of an editor of established reputation. The "stat nominis umbra" of Junius is preferable to this demianonymous substantiality. It reminds us of Teucer sending forth his arrows from behind the seven-fold shield of Ajax Telamon, while he watches their effect and prepares himself for another discharge. A temporary blind, to be withdrawn as it suits the inclination or convenience of the parties concerned, and which, when lifted, has in more cases than one disclosed the imaginary co-partnership represented by the same individual.

In the present instance we are puzzled to draw the line of demarcation. We are unable to separate to our own satisfaction the concealed author from the avowed editor, and probably bestow praise or censure on the one which may with more propriety belong to the other. We cannot divest ourselves of the idea that the glowing, pointed sentences of the author of "The Crescent and the Cross" are scattered more liberally through this work than he acknowledges; and we fancy, although perhaps erroneously, that he has had a greater share in its composition than he modestly admits in his preface, wherein he assures us he has "furnished nothing towards it except such doubtful advantage as his name could give, and such corrections as were freely offered and as freely accepted."

Notwithstanding the spirit and gracefulness which breathe in these volumes, and the varying interest of the subjects touched upon, when we had finished their perusal we felt jaded and unre freshed. Why was this? Because they exbibit in the mass such an unfavorable view of human nature; such a predominance of evil over good; such overwhelming portraitures of animal depravity; of utter sensualism in the highest classes of society, in the most influential sections of civilized life.

The nation drove out the elder branch of the Stuarts, and gained something in civil and religious liberty-valuable acquisitions, certain to take root and fructify with time when solidly planted in a nourishing soil. But neither morals nor manners appear to have changed for the better during the reigns of the two first kings of the substituted family. Vice under the Stuarts was high

in the ascendant; intrigue held "sovereign sway and masterdom;" but it was at least gay, social, and well-bred. So, perhaps, the more dangerous and seductive. Under the first and second

George, the quantity of the commodity still went on increasing, but the texture became gloomy, coarse, and avaricious. There was even more of vice, but now well seasoned with vulgarity. The elegant voluptuousness of Circe and Armida transformed into the low debauchery of Silenus and Trimalchio.*

George the First kept his wife far away from England, iminured in a continental dungeon, while the two Hanoverian ogresses of his harem, the "Schulenberg," and the "Kielmanseck," the "May Pole," and the " Elephant and Castle," as they were nicknamed, openly disposed of place and pension, selling rank and honour to the highest bidder. He hated his son and successor, who returned the compliment with interest, and destroyed his father's will as a last act of filial reverence.†

George the Second selected his wife as the special confidante of his various connubial peccadilloes, all his liaisons being by kind permission of his better half; an agreeable and respectable domestic arrangement. As he and his father detested each other mortally, so did he and his queen continue this family affection in the direct line, by a cordial abhorrence of their own eldest son, which occasioned many scenes, and much expenditure of passion; to the scandal of the few who thought correctly, and the amusement of the many who preferred mischief above everything.

The King inquired of his wife, as the safest authority, whether the beast," meaning the Prince of Wales, was really his son. Her Majesty assured him he was; and then expressed her maternal feelings as follows:"My dear first-born is the greatest ass, and the greatest liar, and the greatest canaille in the whole world; and I most heartily wish he was out of it." There was at least no mystification in these little family dissensions. The

edifying examples were not thrown away on the public, who look to the high authorities set over them for guidance and instruction, as the traveller is directed by his road-book, and the subordinate members of an orchestra take from the leader the key-note by which to tune their own instruments. Frederick, Prince of Wales (the father of George III.), who died in 1741, was undoubtedly a very objectionable person, and his demise a public benefit, as it made way for the succession of a much better man. The following Elegy, which appeared at the time among many others, is quoted by our author, and interprets, as he says, "the common opinion of the day as to the general merits of the family; and while it places him rather above the rest, rates him still at an extremely moderate valuation:"

"Here lies Fred,

Who was alive, and is dead.
Had it been his father.
I had much rather;
Had it been his brother,
Much better than another;
Had it been his sister,

No one would have missed her;
Had it been the whole generation,
Still better for the nation;
But since 'tis only Fred,
Who was alive, and is dead,
There is no more to be said."

In speaking of William, Duke of Cumberland, the hero of Fontenoy and Culloden, as he has been called (why do they omit Closter-Seven?), but better known as "the Butcher," this author denies his claim to the latter enviable title; and with reference to his cruelties in Scotland, says:"Those who look carefully into the

authorities for these atrocities will not find them deserving of faith.' This opinion is more easily delivered than proved. There is no fact in history better established than the frightful and unnecessary barbarities committed after Culloden, by the army under the Duke of Cumberland; a full and very interesting detail may be found in the Pictorial History of England, where

the authorities are named, and the concurrent testimony of friends and enemies produced in evidence. The campaign was inglorious, although decisive; and the battle itself a paltry affair, in which there was no display of military skill on either side. The wretched Highlanders were disunited, badly officered, unskilfully commanded, and exhausted by a ridiculous and harassing night march, in a still more absurd attempt to surprise the British army, which amounted to nearly 8,000 well-appointed, experienced troops. The rebels hardly mustered 4,000, illdisciplined, half-armed, and more than half-starved. It was a case of bad generalship succeeding against worse; "les bornes qui battaient les aveugles," as Frederick the Great said of a battle between the Russians and the Turks. We agree with our author when he says, the rebellion was a formidable one, and that the Duke put it down completely, thereby rendering good service; but we leave him when he argues that the severity resorted to after success, was either good policy or mercy in disguise. It may to some extent have been expedient; but that has little to do with either wisdom or justice.

Heading and hanging men taken in open rebellion seems like legitimate retribution. It is precisely what the vanquished would have done to the victors, had the fortune of war reversed their positions. Attainder of title and forfeiture of property are also natural consequences. All this applies to ringleaders, fomenters, and warriors with arms in their hands; but nothing can extenuate brutal outrage against helpless women and children, burning villages and cottages, in the mere wantonness of power, and general plunder without measure or distinction. That all these excesses were perpetrated systematically throughout the Highlands is undeniable. North of the Tweed, they have been too long familiar with such eulogistic couplets as the following, to change their opinions on the merits of the party celebrated:

"Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie;
Ken ye the news I hae to tell?
Cumberland's awa to h

Charon grim came out to him,
Ye're welcome here, ye deevil's limb!

He tow'd him o'er wi' curse and ban,
Whiles he sank and whiles he swam;
They took him neest to Satan's ha',
There to lilt wi' his grandpapa;
The deil sat girnin in the neuk,
Riving sticks to roast the Duke;
They put him then upon a speet,
And roasted him baith head and feet;
They ate him up baith stoop and roop,
And that's the gate they serv'd the Duke!
Bonny laddie, Highland laddie!"*

When we find the "humours" of William Duke of Cumberland justified, we shall expect next an apology for the massacre of Glencoe. As this same author says in a subsequent portion of his book, on Walpole's attempt to purify Richard the Third:-" It is but attempting to wash the black-a-moor white." Posterity will never be brought to think Richard was a "much-injured individual," or that Cumberland had "butcher" added to his titles, without good claim to the distinction. Hear Horace Walpole himself, in a letter to Sir H. Mann, at Florence: -“ The King is much inclined to some mercy ; but the Duke, who has not so much of Cæsar after a victory as in gaining it, is for the utmost severity. It was lately proposed in the city to present him with the freedom of some company; one of the aldermen said aloud-Then let it be of the Butchers.'" Cumberland and Cæsar!—Culloden and Pharsalia! Flattery will scale Olympus at last. As Hamlet says, "Oh, shame, where is thy blush?" When Walpole drew this parallel, he should have joined to it another: Alexander and Hawley. Each fired a royal palace: the one Persepolis, in the pride of victory; the other, Linlithgow, in the shame of defeat. General Hawley rested his laurelled head in the Palace of Linlithgow, on the night when he fled, hatless, from the glories of Falkirk. On the following morning, as he hurried off to Edinburgh, his dragoons wantonly set fire to the straw that had littered their horses, and burned down that ancient dwellingplace of kings.

A favourite object in the present day appears to be, to uproot all preconceived opinions on matters of history, and supply the vacancies with new ones. A sturdy paradox never fails to excite curiosity. There have been already