Volume I Part 18 (1/2)
[Footnote 1: This was a false report.--WALPOLE.]
_HIS OWN ”ANECDOTES OF PAINTING”--HIS PICTURE OF THE WEDDING OF HENRY VII.--BURNET'S COMPARISON OF TIBERIUS AND CHARLES II.--ADDISON'S ”TRAVELS.”_
TO THE REV. HENRY ZOUCH.
ARLINGTON STREET, _March_ 20, 1762.
I am glad you are pleased, Sir, with my ”Anecdotes of Painting;” but I doubt you praise me too much: it was an easy task when I had the materials collected, and I would not have the labours of forty years, which was Vertue's case, depreciated in compliment to the work of four months, which is almost my whole merit. Style is become, in a manner, a mechanical affair, and if to much ancient lore our antiquaries would add a little modern reading, to polish their language and correct their prejudices, I do not see why books of antiquities should not be made as amusing as writings on any other subject. If Tom Hearne had lived in the world, he might have writ an agreeable history of dancing; at least, I am sure that many modern volumes are read for no reason but for their being penned in the dialect of the age.
I am much beholden to you, dear Sir, for your remarks; they shall have their due place whenever the work proceeds to a second edition, for that the nature of it as a record will ensure to it. A few of your notes demand a present answer: the Bishop of Imola p.r.o.nounced the nuptial benediction at the marriage of Henry VII., which made me suppose him the person represented.[1]
[Footnote 1: In a previous letter Walpole mentions that Vertue (the engraver) had disputed the subject of this picture, because the face of the King did not resemble other pictures of him; but Walpole was convinced of the correctness of his description of it, because it does resemble the face on Henry's s.h.i.+llings, ”which are more authentic than pictures.”]
Burnet, who was more a judge of characters than statues, mentions the resemblance between Tiberius and Charles II.; but, as far as countenances went, there could not be a more ridiculous prepossession; Charles had a long face, with very strong lines, and a narrowish brow; Tiberius a very square face, and flat forehead, with features rather delicate in proportion. I have examined this imaginary likeness, and see no kind of foundation for it. It is like Mr. Addison's Travels,[1] of which it was so truly said, he might have composed them without stirring out of England. There are a kind of naturalists who have sorted out the qualities of the mind, and allotted particular turns of features and complexions to them. It would be much easier to prove that every form has been endowed with every vice. One has heard much of the vigour of Burnet himself; yet I dare to say, he did not think himself like Charles II.
[Footnote 1: It is Fielding who, in his ”Voyage to Lisbon,” gave this character to Addison's ”Travels.”]
I am grieved, Sir, to hear that your eyes suffer; take care of them; nothing can replace the satisfaction they afford: one should h.o.a.rd them, as the only friend that will not be tired of one when one grows old, and when one should least choose to depend on others for entertainment.
I most sincerely wish you happiness and health in that and every other instance.
_BIRTH OF THE PRINCE OF WALES--THE CZARINA--VOLTAIRE'S HISTORICAL CRITICISMS--IMMENSE VALUE OF THE TREASURES BROUGHT OVER IN THE ”HERMIONE.”_
TO SIR HORACE MANN.
ARLINGTON STREET, _Aug._ 12, 1762.
A Prince of Wales [George IV.] was born this morning; the prospect of your old neighbour [the Pretender] at Rome does not improve; the House of Hanover will have numbers in its own family sufficient to defend their crown--unless they marry a Princess of Anhalt Zerbst. What a shocking tragedy that has proved already! There is a manifesto arrived to-day that makes one shudder! This northern Athaliah, who has the modesty not to name her murdered _husband_ in that light, calls him _her neighbour_; and, as if all the world were savages, like Russians, pretends that he died suddenly of a distemper that never was expeditious; mocks Heaven with pretensions to charity and piety; and heaps the additional inhumanity on the man she has dethroned and a.s.sa.s.sinated, of imputing his death to a judgment from Providence. In short, it is the language of usurpation and blood, counselled and apologised for by clergymen! It is Brunehault[1] and an archbishop!
[Footnote 1: Brunehault (in modern English histories called Brunhild) was the wife of Sigebert, King of Austrasia (that district of France which lies between the Meuse and the Rhine) and son of Clotaire I. The ”Biographie Universelle” says of her: ”This Princess, attractive by her beauty, her wit, and her carriage, had the misfortune to possess a great ascendency over her husband, and to have lost sight of the fact that even sovereigns cannot always avenge themselves with impunity.” Her sister, Galswith, the wife of Chilperic, King of Neustria, between the Loire and the Meuse, had been a.s.sa.s.sinated by Fredegonde, and Brunehault, determined to avenge her, induced Sigebert to make war on Chilperic, who had married Fredegonde. He gained a victory; but Fredegonde contrived to have him also a.s.sa.s.sinated, and Brunehault became Fredegonde's prisoner. But Murovee, son of Chilperic, fell in love with her, and married her, and escaping from Rouen, fled into Austrasia. At last, in 595, Fredegonde died, and Brunehault subdued the greater part of Neustria, and ruled with great but unscrupulous energy.
She encouraged St. Augustine in his mission to England; she built hospitals and churches, earning by her zeal in such works a letter of panegyric from Pope Gregory the Great. But, old as she was, she at the same time gave herself up to a life of outrageous license. It was not, however, her dissolute life which proved fatal to her, but the design which she showed to erect a firm monarchy in Austrasia and Neustria, by putting down the overgrown power of the n.o.bles. They raised an army to attack her; she was defeated, and with four of her great-grandchildren, the sons of her grandson, King Theodoric, who had been left to her guardians.h.i.+p, fell into the hands of the n.o.bles, who put her to death with every circ.u.mstance of cruelty and indignity. (See Kitchin's ”History of France,” i. 91.)]
I have seen Mr. Keith's first despatch; in general, my account was tolerably correct; but he does not mention Ivan. The conspiracy advanced by one of the gang being seized, though for another crime; they thought themselves discovered. Orloff, one of them, hurried to the Czarina, and told her she had no time to lose. She was ready for anything; nay, marched herself at the head of fourteen thousand men and a train of artillery against her husband, but not being the only Alecto in Muscovy, she had been aided by a Princess Daschkaw, a nymph under twenty, and sister to the Czar's mistress. It was not the latter, as I told you, but the Chancellor's wife, who offered up the order of St. Catherine. I do not know how my Lord Buckingham [the English Minister at St. Petersburg]
feels, but unless to conjure up a tempest against this fury of the north, nothing could bribe me to set my foot in her dominions. Had she been priestess of the Scythian Diana, she would have sacrificed her brother by choice. It seems she does not degenerate; her mother was ambitious and pa.s.sionate for intrigues; she went to Paris, and dabbled in politics with all her might.
The world had been civilising itself till one began to doubt whether ancient histories were not ancient legends. Voltaire had unpoisoned half the victims to the Church and to ambition. Oh! there never was such a man as Borgia[1]; the league seemed a romance. For the honour of poor historians, the a.s.sa.s.sinations of the Kings of France and Portugal, majesties still living in spite of Damien and the Jesuits, and the dethronement and murder of the Czar, have restored some credibility to the annals of former ages. Tacitus recovers his character by the edition of Petersburg.
[Footnote 1: Borgia, the father, was Pope s.e.xtus VI.; Caesar Borgia was the son--both equally infamous for their crimes, and especially their murders by poison.]
We expect the definitive courier from Paris every day. Now it is said that they ask time to send to Spain. What? to ask leave to desert them!
The Spaniards, not so expeditious in usurpation as the Muscovites, have made no progress in Portugal. Their absurd manifestoes appeared too soon. The Czarina and Princess Daschkaw stay till the stroke is struck.
Really, my dear Sir, your Italy is growing unfas.h.i.+onably innocent,--if you don't take care, the Archbishop of Novgorod will deserve, by his crimes, to be at the head of the _Christian_ Church.[1] I fear my friend, good Benedict, infected you all with his virtues.
[Footnote 1: That is, Pope Benedict XIV.]
You see how this Russian revolution has seized every cell in my head--a Prince of Wales is pa.s.sed over in a line, the peace in another line. I have not even told you that the treasure of the _Hermione_,[1] reckoned eight hundred thousand pounds, pa.s.sed the end of my street this morning in one-and-twenty waggons. Of the Havannah I could tell you nothing if I would; people grow impatient at not hearing from thence. Adieu!