"Walpole calls the Hercules' Pillars an ale-house. Whatever it might have been at the period he wrote, it is very certain that in twenty-four years after that time it laid claim to a higher appellation. After the peace of 1762, it was a respectable tavern, where the Marquis of Granby, and other persons of rank, particularly military men, had frequent dinner parties, which were then fashionable. It was also an inn of great repute among the west-country gentlemen coming to London for a few weeks, who thought themselves fortunate if they could secure accommodations for their families at the Hercules' Pillars. Hotels were, at that time, unknown. It was in this tavern that the Duke of Athol sheltered his family when the house which he inhabited in South Audley-street was burnt to the ground. It may be interesting to add, that the spot where it once stood is now occupied by the noble mansion of the Duke of Wellington.”—vol. i. p. 54. 66 A comical instance of the little value which ministers place upon a mere title occurred during the administration of Lord North. Sir Richard Philips, who lived near Pimlico, and was a supporter of the minister in parliament, asked permission to pass through Buckingham gate and St. James's-palace on his way to the House of Commons. Lord North expressed his regret at not having it in his power to comply with his request, as the king did not like carriages passing so near his palace; but if Sir Richard would like an Irish peerage, he should have pleasure in recommending him to his Majesty for one. Sir Richard, nothing displeased, accepted the offer, and was created Baron Milford."—vol. i. p. 96. 66 Miss Lucy Young, maid of honour to the Princess Dowager of WalesLord Rochford had for some time paid her great attention, but without making any proposal of marriage, which occasioned remarks detrimental to her reputation. One night that Lord Rochford was with her at Vauxhall, Miss Young became so distressed by the sneers of some ladies belonging to the household of the Princess, that Lord Rochford's honourable feelings were aroused-he made her an immediate tender of his hand, and the next day Miss Young became Countess of Rochford."-vol. i. p. 106. Betty Neale, who for many years lived in St. James's street, in a small house with a bow-window, on the western side, afterwards occupied by Martindale. It had not the appearance of a shop, but was exactly as it now is. It had been built by subscription for her, and was, in fact, the rendezvous of the Opposition party, who met at her house every day. She never admitted chance customers, and one day upon Colonel Luttrell's calling and asking for fruit, Betty desired him to walk out, as she only kept fruit for particular persons. Betty Neale was greatly in the confidence of the heads of the Opposition party, and often employed by them in gaining intelligence."-vol. i. p. 150. Lord Townshend was very fond of drawing caricatures, in which he excelled. He published a set of twelve, to which he affixed the name of Austin, a drawing-master; but well known not to have been done by him. Whilst Lord Townshend was Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, he had an aid-decamp, who was not far inferior to his Lordship in drawing caricatures. His name was Captain Teasdale:-One day when Teasdale was the aid-de-camp in waiting, and sitting at the foot of the vice-regal table, he observed Lord Townshend taking a sketch of his face, which was by no means remarkable for beauty-Teasdale immediately took his pencil from his pocket and drew a portrait of the Lord Lieutenant, who was too much engaged with his own drawing to perceive what his aid-de-camp was about. Lord Townshend, greatly satisfied with his performance, handed it to the person who sat on his right hand, and Teasdale at the same moment presented the portrait of the Lord Lieutenant to his nearest neighbour at the bottom of the table on his right hand, and the two caricatures simultaneously made the tour of the table-Lord Townshend took it with great good humour, and was not offended.—vol. i. p. 326. "Among the persons killed at St. Cas, was Sir John Armitage. The fate of this gentleman was excessively lamented: he was a volunteer, but without having intended being one upon this expedition,—his mind was far differently engaged, in making preparations for his approaching marriage with Miss Howe, sister of the three gallant brothers who successively bore the title of Lord Howe. Sir John went to the levee at the time when officers and volunteers were taking leave of his Majesty to join the army. The brave old King (whose mind was bent upon the expedition), supposing Sir John, who had been a volunteer upon a previous occasion, had still the same military spirit, asked him, 'When he meant to set out?' Taken, as he was, by surprise, sir John answered, 'To-morrow,' and unhappily kept his word. The lady, several years after, married Sir William Pitt. A black collar, which she always wore around her neck, concealed a splendid brilliant necklace, given to her as a nuptial present by her ill-fated lover-a man very greatly and generally esteemed. He was a member of parliament for York."-vol. i. p. 391. "General Townshend acted very improperly in receiving the surrender of Quebec, and a few days afterwards made an apology in writing to General Monckton, who, being his superior officer, had succeeded General Wolfe as Commander-in-chief. King George II., who was a strict disciplinarian, was so much displeased that when General Townshend, upon his return to England, attended for the first time at the levee, to pay his respects to his Majesty, the brave old King turned his back upon him, and was with some difficulty persuaded to speak to him.-vol. i. p. 423. Miss Fenton, the original Polly of the Beggar's Opera. Charles Duke of Bolton took her off the stage, and, after having children by her, married her. According to Walpole, after a life of merit, she relapsed into Polyhood. Two years before her death, she picked up an Irish surgeon at Tunbridge, who, when she was dying, sent for a lawyer to make her will; but he, finding who was to be her heir instead of her children, refused to draw it. Another less scrupulous was found, and she left her three sons a thousand pounds a-piece, the surgeon about nine thousand."-vol. ii. p. 6. "Miss Ford, the writer of the letter in question, appears to have been the object of an illicit, but unsuccessful attachment on the part of Lord Jersey, whose advances if not sanctioned by the lady, appear to have been sanctioned by her father, who told her she might have accepted the settlement his lordship offered her, and yet not have complied with his terms. The following strange extracts from the letter will explain the history alluded to by Walpole. "However I must do your lordship the justice to say, that as you conceived this meeting (one with a noble personage which Lord Jersey had desired her not to make) would have been most pleasing to me, and perhaps of some advantage, your lordship did (in consideration of so great a disappointment) send me, a few days after, a present of a boar's head, which I had often had the honour to meet at your lordship's table before. It was rather an odd first, and only present from a lord to his beloved mistress; but its coming from your lordship gave it an additional value, which it had not in itself; and I received it with the regard I thought due to every thing coming from your lordship, and would have eat it, had it been eatable. ***** I am impatient to acquit your lordship and myself, by showing that as your lordship's eight hundred pounds a-year did not purchase my person, the boar's head did not purchase my silence."-vol. ii. p. 57. "It was during the debate on the subject of the cider tax that Mr. Grenville acquired the name of the Gentle Shepherd. He was contending, in answer to Mr. Pitt, that such a measure was unavoidable, as government knew not where to impose another tax of equal efficiency. The right honourable gentleman,' said he, complains of the severity of the tax; why does he not propose another tax instead of it. Tell me where, tell me where, this he repeated several times with great energy: tell me where you can 6 lay another tax?' 'Gentle Shepherd, tell me where replied Mr. Pitt, in a musical tone, repeating the words of a popular canzonet; immoderate bursts of laughter followed, and Mr. Grenville retained for ever the name of The Gentle Shepherd."-vol. ii. p. 183. "Nancy Dawson was a very popular song at that time, which Walpole seems to have considered it as desirable not to hear, as John Cramer did some recent popular melodies, which in their day were equally intrusive. Remember, said the musician to a footboy whom he was engaging-' Remember there are two things I insist on: that you never let me hear you mention the name of Fauntleroy, or whistle a tune from the Frieschutz.` vol. ii. p. 273. - "It was Le Kain who replied to an officer who had spoken contemptuously of actors, comparing their situation with that of a military man compelled after long service to retire upon half-pay, How, sir, do you not reckon as any thing the right you have to talk to me in this way?"-vol. ii, 292. "A want of legs is not the only deficiency under which the cherubim labour, according to the capital story told of St. Cecilia. That saint was one day singing and playing on the organ, when the chapel was suddenly filled with cherubim, who kept fluttering round her as long as she continued her tuneful devotions. The saint, apprehensive that they must be tired from the length of time which they had been poising themselves on their downy wings, addressed them with--Asseyez vous, mes enfans;' to which she received for answer, Merci, madame, merci, mais nous n'avons pas de quoi.”—vol. iii. p. 48. The Notes we have here extracted are but a few from among a host of similarly agreeable "aids to knowledge," with which the diligence and taste of the editor have enriched this collection. It is stated that many of these notes were first written on the margin of the leaves of the original edition, very soon after its appearance; and were derived from the impression remaining upon a very retentive memory of the transactions of long by-gone years, and from the recollection of conversations with, and communications from, individuals much farther advanced in life than the writer, and possessing authentic and important information; nor was the idea of publication entertained until very recently. The decision which has now given them to the public is to be applauded; and, with such valuable accession, it is not to be doubted that the large mass of Walpole's letters given in the work before us, and known popularly as the "Correspondence with Montagu," will be received with fresh zest and avidity. HENRIETTA TEMPLE, BY THE AUTHOR OF "VIVIAN GREY." WANT of originality is the besetting sin of our literature. Half our writers only write because others have written before. Rochefoucault says, "Il y a des gens qui n'auroient jamais été amoureux, s'ils n'avoient jamais entendu parler de l'amour." This would be equally true as applied to composition. Sir Walter Scott drew from history the material wherewith to give a reality and a utility to fiction before unknown; at once sprang up a host of imitators, whose Parnassus was the British Museum, and who, from the remains of chronicles and legends drew the clay whereof they modelled their figures. They only forgot the fire from heaven, with which our modern Prometheus animated his beings. And herein consists the difference between the creator and the copyist-between the man of genius and his follower. The first flings his own fire into "his young creation, his soul's child." The other gives you a worn plaster cast. At all events this fault cannot be laid to Mr. D'Israeli's charge-he is entirely original. We are never reminded of any one else, we never half close the book, saying, "surely we have read this before!" No, we are startled, surprised, and always carried on to the last. In any other age than the present, or even now, had he lived less in society, Mr. D'Israeli would have been a poet. He has essentially the poetic temperament-the intense self-consciousness, the impetuosity, and the eye for the beautiful. Many of his single phrases are perfect pictures; what can be more happy than the line in which he calls Florence "The airy Athens of the Apennine." What a world of association is at once called up! the loveliness grows more lovely, because the shadow of the remembered is flung around it. We not only see the fair city, but we see the statesmen, poets, and painters who lived amid its walls, and left life's undying life, the mind, behind them. It is an epoch in youth's memory-the first reading of "Vivian Grey." It embodied the only enthusiasm of our day excitement,-it was one of those books over which we read ourselves out of breath. It is curious to return to its pages, after a few years have passed by; we know nothing that makes us more sensible of the change in ourselves. It appears to us even cleverer on the second reading than it did at first-then we felt with it, now we think over it. It is a strange and striking picture of the vain struggle of talent against circumstance and wealth; the life of the world is intellect, but it is life in death. It matters not in what way a man may be distinguished among his fellows, so surely as he is endowed by nature, fate will ordain that he shall " a double penance pay." Cleveland, the gifted, the disappointed, the suddenly struck down, is but the type of thousands. The destinies of to-day are the same dark deities as of old, they demand their victims. The second series of "Vivian Grey" indicated even more variety of talent than the first. We remember an American describing its effect in his own country, and saying, "We read it as we walk in a noble picture gallery." How much of poetry, and therefore of the thoughtful, the feeling, and the picturesque, is there invested with existence! Vivian Grey is himself the type of the imagination subservient to emotion, because invested with humanity; what can such a history be but of strife and of disappointment! There is the perpetual seeking for love and for the ideal, which come not, at least to stay; they are angels known but by the shining of the white wings they only spread to depart. This principle was even more strongly developed in "Contarini Fleming," one of the most remarkable and thoughtful works of the day—and in which the history of the hero's love and marriage showed what was the writer's power over our softest and most subtle sensations. "Henrietta Temple," a love story from him who imagined the soft yet sunny being of Violet Fane, or the more passionate mystery of Alceste, inight well excite attention. He has looked in the heart's paradise and "caught its early beauty." "There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth and every common sight To me did seem Apparalled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream." It is of this time that Mr. D'Israeli writes, and never yet did the weary one go down to the valley of the shadow of death without having known that time whose feeling condenses all other in itself. All have known "Those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain light of all our day." Who has not loved, has not lived; the cycle of their being is incomplete; as yet they know not how completely they can be carried out of themselves as yet they know not the meaning of poetry; to them the deepest harmonies of nature are mute. But suddenly even as the south wind opens the hidden crimson of the rose, a new breath has warmed the heart, till then cold and closed. We wonder how we could have lived and not loved before, so natural does it seem to love. We recall our former indifference only to wonder at it, and cling with a more eager delight to our new-found treasure. We feel a tender pity for what before appeared to us either impossible or absurd, and we have a vainly checked fear of punishment for our once lack of sympathy. We marvel at the intenseness of our own happiness; the presence of one beloved being has changed our whole world; we would stay for hours only to gaze on one face, which is to us even as sunshine,-light in itself, and making all things light as well. We talk, yet care not what is talked about; one low voice has a charm beyond all that wit or intelligence could put into words. We think with perpetual reference to one object, which mingles with the last thought that melts into sleep, and which is the first to float upon the light of morning. What a charm is flung around the commonest things! what power is there in a step! how soon do we learn to know that step amid a thousand! What power to make the cheek colour and the heart beat, beat with a sweet tumultuous beating never known before! How impertinent appear all our ordinary enjoyments, we live but in the existence of another, we ask for nothing, but so to exist! It is this "haunted hour" which Mr. D'Israeli has painted, as only the poet paints, with a beauty and with a truth at once ideal and real. We linger with a delight he has conjured from our own past, or with a hope lighted up in our own future, over "The haunts of happy lovers, The path that leads them to the grove, Truly does he himself say, "What a mystery is love! all the necessities and habits of our life sink before it. Food and sleep that seem to divide our being, as day and night divide time, lose all their influence over the lover; all the fortune of the world, without his mistress, is misery, and with her all its mischances are a transient dream. Revolutions, earthquakes, the change of governments, the fall of empires, are to him but childish games. Men love in the plague, and forget the pest |