The political libels on the King are thus sarcastically described:
“Recast the royal virtues, which before
The nation worshipped, and cry down the ore,
To teach the people this indulgent reign
With every charge of tyranny to stain,—
To swallow every contradiction down,—
In Antonine’s mild look see Nero’s frown,—
Wrest his intention and distort each fact,
And lend them treason till they long to act;
In terms of duty wrap each boisterous deed,—
Kneel while we stab, and libel while we plead.”
This compliment on the King is pretty:
“Who from the sceptre no exemption draws,
And is but the first subject of the laws.”
His gratitude to Lord Bute has flowered in a panegyric, which may interest the reader from being one of the very few poetical tributes obtained by that nobleman approaching mediocrity.
“Oh! if we seize with skill the coming hour,
And re-invest us with the robe of power—
Rule while we live—let future days transmute
To every merit all we’ve charged on Bute.
Let late Posterity receive his name,
And swell its sails with every breath of fame:
Downward as far as Time shall roll his tide,
With every pendant flying let it glide;
And Truth emerging from the clouds we raise,
Gild all their orient colours with her blaze.
Let his loved arts, attendant on his way,
Their wanton trophies to the gale display;
While each dispassionate, each honest pen,
(Deterred by clamour, nor allured by gain,—
Bard or Historian—) shall from either shore,
Hail its approach, and its great course explore;
Faithful to Probity and Virtue’s cause,
Pursue its progress, and direct th’ applause.
Glad Gratulation shall with shouts approve,
And own him worthy of his Sovereign’s love.”
The success of this satire brought an accumulation of favours on the author, as, in addition to a commissionership of lotteries, and other small places, he received a pension for the lives of himself and his wife of 500l. per annum. He was the only son of the celebrated critic, and dabbled a little in criticism himself, though he was too careless to become eminent in it. He wrote several party poems in support of Lord Bute’s administration—all long since forgotten, as is his unsuccessful play of “The Wishes,” which his nephew Cumberland warmly praises for the brilliancy of its dialogue. “Philodamus,” another of his dramas, equally failed, but was honoured with an elaborate commentary by Gray; in return, perhaps, for the author’s beautiful designs to the 4to edition of that poet’s works. These designs, indeed, generally show considerable taste; and he was no doubt an eminently accomplished person. Unhappily, he was also eminently improvident, and notwithstanding a handsome patrimony which descended to him from his father, and the substantial bounty of Lord Bute, he fell into pecuniary difficulties, which harassed him to the end of his life. The editor has seen in the Island of Jersey a lonely house formerly belonging to Lord Granville, where he is described by Walpole as residing for some years with a large family of daughters. He died towards the close of the last century.—E.
[84] Mr. Anstey died in 1805, being upwards of eighty years of age. His life had been easy and prosperous, and he cultivated literature only as an amusement. The criticism passed by Walpole on his works has been confirmed by posterity. Their inequality is not easily explained. He was a good classical scholar, as he has shown by his translations in Latin verse, which are very prettily turned.—E.
[85] It may appear strange to us that a work of so little merit as Mrs. Macaulay’s History should be mentioned by Walpole almost in the same sentence with Robertson’s “Charles the Fifth,” but other writers of that day have bestowed on it equally elaborate and still more complimentary criticism. Indeed, it met, on its original publication, with a warmth of praise that presents a striking contrast to the discouraging reception of the early volumes of Hume. Madame Roland regarded it as hardly inferior to Tacitus. The adventitious events which produced this perversion of judgment in a large portion of the public have long ceased to operate, and the discredit which deservedly attaches to Mrs. Macaulay’s History has extended rather unjustly to her talents. She was a vain, self-opinionated, and prejudiced, but also a clever woman. Her works show occasionally considerable power of writing, especially in description; and carelessly as she consulted original authorities, and unfairly as she used them, she may in that respect bear no dishonourable comparison with Smollett, and others of her contemporaries. She is at least entitled to the praise of having been the first, in order, of our female historians. Mrs. Macaulay died in 1791, aged fifty-eight. An imprudent marriage, late in life, with a man much younger and in a much lower station than herself, alienated from her most of her friends, and hastened the downfal of a literary reputation, which had barely survived the wreck of the small section of politicians with whom she was connected.—E.
[86] This is the case in her fourth volume; in the fifth, she takes the contrary extreme.