But we must put an end to this agreeable conference,—though we think, that if we could for ever listen to such vivid gossip, we should never grow old. We had intended to have treated of the romantic intimacy, and subsequent determined hatred, that existed between Lady Mary and Pope; but our limits warn us that we must not indulge in a lengthy discussion of the subject. She, it is clear, was flattered by his wit and his mental beauty. In him real passion took root. His advances she appears to have repulsed, and he was thus suddenly driven to the galling contemplation of his own person, and he at once from the adoring poet became the "Deformed Transformed" into hate itself. Byron never forgave an allusion to his lameness. The separation of Mr. Wortley from his accomplished wife still remains unexplained; but it is clear that kindly and respectful feelings were preserved unblemished between them; and there is a delicate tenderness in each towards the other in the veriest trifles, which shows how feeble a thing is absence over sincere affections. We are rather surprised that no letters from Lady Mary to her grand-daughter Lady Jane, (one of the daughters of the Countess of Bute,) have not straggled into print. How beautifully must she have written to children, and particularly to such a child as Lady Jane appears to have been! The letters, however, we fear are lost.
If we might be permitted to adopt a new manner of life, and to pitch our tent in whatever part of his Majesty's dominions we pleased,—we have no hesitation in saying that we should lose no time in directing those people, however respectable they may be, who inhabit Strawberry Hill, to get out! We should then send down by the Twickenham carrier complete sets of the works of Pope, Swift, Johnny Gay, and the dear Arbuthnot,—of the Letters of Horace Walpole, of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, Pepys' Memoirs, Evelyn's Memoirs, Shakspeare, and some other works of trifling interest,—begging they may be placed in that little library with the stained glass. We should then Ourselves go down!—have a comfortable annuity from government, and a moderate handful of servants from the neighbourhood; and there we would pass away our life, "from morn to noon,—from noon to dewy eve,—a summer's day!" This plan has something in it so modest and reasonable, that we cannot help thinking it will attract the attention of the existing ministry, and in the end be realized!
A LAMENT OVER THE BANNISTER.
And have we lost thee!—has the monarch grim To his dull court borne off the child of whim! And art thou gone, Oldboy?[26] thou brave and good Protector[27] of the Children in the Wood?
Then has the World's great Echo[28] died away; Out of his time th' Apprentice[29] could not stay: The Squib's[30] gone off, extinguish'd ev'ry spark, And Momus mourns his region left so dark.
How oft, exulting, have we view'd the Moor[31] For Christian captives open Freedom's door; We've stared to hear the Valet's[32] ready fib, And shudder'd when the Cobbler[33] strapp'd his rib.
How, when Barbadoes' merry bells did ring, We've smiled to see thee Trudge[34] and hear thee sing; Thy Ben[35] and Dory[36] were of right true blue, Thy Sheva[37] warm'd us to respect a Jew.
To Feign well[38] thou indeed couldst make pretence, Thy brilliant eye was all intelligence; In thee we lost the flow'r of City youths,[39] And now no Lenitive[40] our sorrow soothes.
We care not whether tithes be paid or left, Since of our Acres[41] we have been bereft; We dread Spring Rice's yearly fiscal bore, But grieve Thy Budget[42] can be heard no more.