rary genius of the reign of Queen Anne. Lord Byron is not the only one who has characterized by its real name the affected virtue of the Reverend critic; but it is evident that among the avengers of the sacred ashes of Pope, there are some who will not venture to make an open attack on an enemy who screens himself behind so specious a mask.

:

The anecdotes collected by Spence in the society of Pope, which have been recently published, have unfolded the private life of the author of the Rape of the Lock. They explain, in a way favourable to the poet, several facts, which have been perverted by Mr. Bowles. His resentment against Lady Mary Wortley Montague, were certainly in some measure justified by the disdain of that inconsistent woman, who departed from the proper sphere of her sex, to endeavour to play an important part in literature and politics.

Pope, who, as it has been observed, was not made for love, was weak enough to fancy that love might be made for him--an error, certainly, excusable in a poet. His passion for Lady Mary Montague embittered his youth, and the indifference of Martha Blount rendered him miserable in mature life. The soul of Rousseau is poured forth in his Julie. If Pope had never been in love, he would not have been so eloquent an interpreter of the complaints of Heloisa. Some effusions of his muse, which he suppressed after he recovered from the dream of his silly hopes, have been found. He presumed to speak to Lady

Mary Montague about the supposed sympathy of their souls, and he timidly asked her whether she could overlook a body which nature had used unkindly. At these words a loud burst of laughter betrayed the cruel disdain of the woman whose mind alone he had captivated.

Receive, Madame, &c.

LETTER XXI.

TO M. DUDRENEC.

WHEN we read in the different critical works, and the inimitable letters of Horace Walpole, the description of the ancient manors which he visited; when we recal his admiration for the picturesque, and frequently sublime, effect of those towers, battlements, chapels, arches, &c. of which he composes pictures, alike remarkable for general grandeur and finished detail,-we naturally expect to find at Strawberry Hill a monument of the imposing architecture of the middle ages. But the castle, though a model of taste and elegance, may more properly be called a gothic building in miniature. It is the villa of a wealthy man of the world, rather than the manor of a feudal baron. Thus, too, in the Castle of Otranto, the style betrays the artifice of the pretended translator of

that imitation of the recitals of past time. I should prefer more simplicity and less correctness.

Strawberry Hill is situated on the banks of the Thames, at about a mile and a half from Twickenham. The apartments are fitted up and furnished in a style corresponding with the exterior of the building; the ceilings, niches, and all the details of the architecture are imitated from the picturesque decorations of cathedrals, abbeys, and other gothic edifices. Horace Walpole has been reproached for a certain degree of meanness towards artists; but the pictures and treasures of antiquity, which adorn Strawberry, would be worthy of a royal gallery. In his calculations there appears to have been less of absolute avarice than of that amateur mania, which by turns finds its gratification in paying at a dear and a cheap rate for objects of art or curiosity. I know a bibliomaniac baron who was as proud of having picked up, on one of the quays, a famous edition of a book with a remarkable fault, for the sum of ten sous, as for having purchased at a sale a bible of 1400, for fifty Louis.

Lord Byron, who, though a professed democrat, had occasionally his little aristocratic fits, has sought to avenge the memory of Horace Walpole, in the preface to the Doge of Venice, and he quotes him as a model of the true gentleman.— Under this title, the author of the Castle of Otranto appears decked out in foreign graces; and, certainly, the urbanity of the English aristocracy is still a mere imitation of Parisian grace. You will

perhaps say that Horace Walpole was, above all, a Frenchman in his excessive vanity. Vanity was, Findeed, the disease of Walpole. It has often been zobserved, that vanity furnishes a fool with a shield invulnerable to ridicule, while it renders the man of understanding sensible to the slightest wound. The dread of ridicule was the torment of Walpole's life, and the cause of all his weaknesses. The necessity of defending himself against it, continually engrossed all the resources of his mind, cand prevented him from rising to superiority in anything. In his intercourse with society, he could never venture to be unreservedly himself. Wherever he went he wore a mask, and his manners were always constrained or affected. It is only in the intimacy, or I may say, in the negligence of correspondence, that he is the rival of Voltaire. The inconsistencies in his character and social situation, are truly amusing. He was the son of a minister, a whig, an independent man, and a despiser of kings; and yet he was flattered by the smiles of power, and was proud of his distinguished birth. He seems to have written merely to prove what he was capable of doing, had he not despised the character of an author. He pretended to be indifferent about the success of his literary productions he seemed to abandon them willingly to censure, and yet he was jealous of his own fame, and envious of that cof others. He artfully invited praise, and anticipated objections. But for this dread of ridicule, which deprived Walpole of all openness of conduct, and boldness

of conception, he might have been original, and perhaps even great. He might have taken the lofty flight of genius, had he not been impeded by the puerile occupation of measuring all his steps, and listening to the gossip of opinion.— One can only address to him the very true compliment of Madame du Deffand, his poor blind friend, whom he often treated ungraciously: "You are possessed of discernment, delicate tact, and correct taste. You would have been the best companion in the world in past ages-you are so at the present time, and you will still be the same in ages to come." Though he has written no serious dissertation on science or the arts, politics or administration; though he exhibited none of those flights of genius which excite enthusiasm, yet Walpole never fails to interest. His letters, which are as amusing as those of Voltaire, are full of interesting anecdote, shrewd observation, ingenious satire, and pleasant philosophic remarks on persons and events. His historical memoirs sufficiently prove that this style of familiar history is not peculiar to France alone. It is true, I repeat, that Horace Walpole's manners were rather French than English. Who can ever forget his portraits of Lord Balmerino, George Selwyn, and the Duke of Newcastle-his admirable comic scene of the funeral of George II., and his anecdote of the marriage of Tracy?

Everything was calculated to intoxicate this English Vathek in his elegant palace. Strawberry was visited by celebrated artists, who looked upon