“A small Euphrates through the piece is roll’d,
And little finches wave their wings in gold.”
He goes on to decorate the theme with comic and fanciful properties:
Two delightful roads that you would call dusty supply me continually with coaches and chaises; barges as solemn as barons of the exchequer move under my window; Richmond Hill and Ham-walks bound my prospect; but, thank God, the Thames is between me and the Duchess of Queensberry. Dowagers as plenty as flounders inhabit all around, and Pope’s ghost is just now skimming under my window by a most poetical moonlight. I have about land enough to keep such a farm as Noah’s when he set up in the Ark with a pair of each kind.
It is in the spirit of a child throwing its whole imagination into playing with a Noah’s Ark that he describes his queer house. It is in this spirit that he sees the fields around his house “speckled with cows, horses and sheep.” The very phrase suggests toy animals. Walpole himself declared at the age of seventy-three: “My best wisdom has consisted in forming a baby-house full of playthings for my second childhood.” That explains why one almost loves the creature. Macaulay has severely censured him for devoting himself to the collection of knick-knacks, such as King William III.’s spurs, and it is apparently impossible to defend Walpole as a collector to be taken seriously. Walpole, however, collected things in a mood of fantasy as much as of connoisseurship. He did not take himself quite seriously. It was fancy, not connoisseurship, that made him hang up Magna Charta beside his bed and, opposite it, the warrant for the execution of King Charles I., on which he had written “Major Charta.” Who can question the fantastic quality of the mind that wrote to Conway: “Remember, neither Lady Salisbury nor you, nor Mrs. Damer, have seen my new divine closet, nor the billiard-sticks with which the Countess of Pembroke and Arcadia used to play with her brother, Sir Philip,” and ended: “I never did see Cotchel, and am sorry. Is not the old ward-robe there still? There was one from the time of Cain, but Adam’s breeches and Eve’s under-petticoat were eaten by a goat in the ark. Good-night.” He laughed over the knick-knacks he collected for himself and his friends. “As to snuff-boxes and toothpick cases,” he wrote to the Countess of Ossory from Paris in 1771, “the vintage has entirely failed this year.” Everything that he turned his mind to in Strawberry Hill he regarded in the same spirit of comic delight. He stood outside himself, like a spectator, and nothing gave him more pleasure than to figure himself as a master of the ceremonies among the bantams, and the squirrels and the goldfish. In one of his letters he describes himself and Bentley fishing in the pond for goldfish with “nothing but a pail and a basin and a tea-strainer, which I persuade my neighbours is the Chinese method.” This was in order to capture some of the fish for Bentley, who “carried a dozen to town t’other day in a decanter.” Walpole is similarly amused by the spectacle of himself as a planter and gardener. “I have made great progress,” he boasts, “and talk very learnedly with the nursery-men, except that now and then a lettuce runs to seed, overturns all my botany, and I have more than once taken it for a curious West Indian flowering shrub. Then the deliberation with which trees grow is extremely inconvenient to my natural impatience.” He goes on enviously to imagine the discovery by posterity of a means of transplanting oaks of a hundred and fifty years as easily as tulip-bulbs. This leads him to enlarge upon the wonders that the Horace Walpole of posterity will be able to possess when the miraculous discoveries have been made.
Then the delightfulness of having whole groves of humming-birds, tatne tigers taught to fetch and carry, pocket spying-glasses to see all that is doing in China, and a thousand other toys, which we now look upon as impracticable, and which pert posterity would laugh in our face for staring at.
Among the various creatures with which he loved to surround himself, it is impossible to forget either the little black spaniel, Tony, that the wolf carried off near a wood in the Alps during his first travels, or the more imperious little dog, Tonton, which he has constantly to prevent from biting people at Madame du Deffand’s, but which with Madame du Deffand herself “grows the greater favourite the more people he devours.” “T’other night,” writes Walpole, to whom Madame du Deffand afterwards bequeathed the dog in her will, “he flew at Lady Barrymore’s face, and I thought would have torn her eye out, but it ended in biting her finger. She was terrified; she fell into tears. Madame du Deffand, who has too much parts not to see everything in its true light, perceiving that she had not beaten Tonton half enough, immediately told us a story of a lady whose dog having bitten a piece out of a gentleman’s leg, the tender dame, in a great fright, cried out, ‘Won’t it make him sick?’” In the most attractive accounts we possess of Walpole in his old age, we see him seated at the breakfast-table, drinking tea out of “most rare and precious ancient porcelain of Japan,” and sharing the loaf and butter with Tonton (now grown almost too fat to move, and spread on a sofa beside him), and afterwards going to the window with a basin of bread and milk to throw to the squirrels in the garden.
Many people would be willing to admit, however, that Walpole was an excitable creature where small things were concerned—a parroquet or the prospect of being able to print original letters of Ninon de l’Enclos at Strawberry, or the discovery of a poem by the brother of Anne Boleyn, or Ranelagh, where “the floor is all of beaten princes.” What is not generally realized is that he was also a high-strung and eager spectator of the greater things. I have already spoken of his enthusiasm for wild nature as shown in his letters from the Alps. It is true he grew weary of them. “Such uncouth rocks,” he wrote, “and such uncomely inhabitants.” “I am as surfeited with mountains and inns as if I had eat them,” he groaned in a later letter. But the enthusiasm was at least as genuine as the fatigue. His tergiversation of mood proves only that there were two Walpoles, not that the Walpole of the romantic enthusiasms was insincere. He was a devotee of romance, but it was romance under the control of the comic spirit. He was always amused to have romance brought down to reality, as when, writing of Mary Queen of Scots, he said: “I believe I have told you that, in a very old trial of her, which I bought for Lord Oxford’s collection, it is said that she was a large lame woman. Take sentiments out of their pantaufles, and reduce them to the infirmities of mortality, what a falling off there is!” But see him in the picture-gallery in his father’s old house at Houghton, after an absence of sixteen years, and the romantic mood is upper-most. “In one respect,” he writes, speaking of the pictures, “I am very young; I cannot satiate myself with looking,” and he adds, “Not a picture here but calls a history; not one but I remember in Downing Street or Chelsea, where queens and crowds admired them.” And, if he could not “satiate himself with looking” at the Italian and Flemish masters, he similarly preserved the heat of youth in his enthusiasm for Shakespeare. “When,” he wrote, during his dispute with Voltaire on the point, “I think over all the great authors of the Greeks, Romans, Italians, French and English (and I know no other languages), I set Shakespeare first and alone and then begin anew.” One is astonished to find that he was contemptuous of Montaigne. “What signifies what a man thought,” he wrote, “who never thought of anything but himself, and what signifies what a man did who never did anything?” This sentence might have served as a condemnation of Walpole himself, and indeed he meant it so. Walpole, however, was an egoist of an opposite kind to Montaigne. Walpole lived for his eyes, and saw the world as a masque of bright and amusing creatures. Montaigne studied the map of himself rather than the map of his neighbours’ vanities. Walpole was a social being, and not finally self-centred. His chief purpose in life was not to know himself, but to give pleasure to his friends. If he was bored by Montaigne, it was because he had little introspective curiosity. Like Montaigne himself, however, he was much the servant of whim in his literary tastes. That he was no sceptic but a disciple as regards Shakespeare and Milton and Pope and Gray suggests, on the other hand, how foolish it is to regard him as being critically a fashionable trifler.
Not that it is possible to represent him as a man with anything Dionysiac in his temperament. The furthest that one can go is to say that he was a man of sincere strong sentiment with quivering nerves. Capricious in little things, he was faithful in great. His warmth of nature as a son, as a friend, as a humanitarian, as a believer in tolerance and liberty, is so unfailing that it is curious it should ever have been brought in question by any reader of the letters. His quarrels are negligible when put beside his ceaseless extravagance of good humour to his friends. His letters alone were golden gifts, but we also find him offering his fortune to Conway when the latter was in difficulties. “I have sense enough,” he wrote, “to have real pleasure in denying myself baubles, and in saving a very good income to make a man happy for whom I have a just esteem and most sincere friendship.” “Blameable in ten thousand other respects,” he wrote to Conway seventeen years later, “may not I almost say I am perfect with regard to you? Since I was fifteen have I not loved you unalterably?” “I am,” he claimed towards the end of his life, “very constant and sincere to friends of above forty years.” In his friendships he was more eager to give than to receive. Madame du Deffand was only dissuaded from making him her heir by his threat that if she did so he would never visit her again. Ever since his boyhood he was noted for his love of giving pleasure and for his thoughtfulness regarding those he loved. The earliest of his published letters was until recently one written at the age of fourteen. But Dr. Paget Toynbee, in his supplementary volumes of Walpole letters, recently published, has been able to print one to Lady Walpole written at the age of eight, which suggests that Walpole was a delightful sort of child, incapable of forgetting a parent, a friend, or a pet:
Dear mama, I hop you are wall, and I am very wall, and I hop papa is wal, and I begin to slaap, and I hop al wall and my cosens like there pla things vary wall