The Letters of Horace Walpole - Volume I | Page 5

a branch of literature which had slumbered for several years after
the death of Defoe, but which the genius of Fielding and Smollett had
again brought into fashion. But their tales purported to be pictures of
the manners of the day. This was rather the forerunner of Mrs.
Radcliffe's[1] weird tales of supernatural mystery, which for a time so
engrossed the public attention as to lead that "wicked wag," Mr. George
Coleman, to regard them as representatives of the class, and to describe
how--
A novel now is nothing more Than an old castle and a creaking door; A
distant hovel; Clanking of chains, a gallery, a light, Old armour, and a
phantom all in white, And there's a novel.
[Footnote 1: "'The Castle of Otranto' was the father of that marvellous
series which once overstocked the circulating library, and closed with
Mrs. Radcliffe."--D'Israeli, "Curiosities of Literature," ii. 115.]
He had published it anonymously as a tale that had been found in the
library of an ancient family in the North of England; but it was not
indebted solely to the mystery of its authorship for its favourable
reception--since, after he acknowledged it as his own work in a second
edition, the sale did not fall off. And it deserved success, for, though
the day had passed when even the most credulous could place any faith
in swords that required a hundred men to lift, and helmets which could
only fit the champion whose single strength could wield such a weapon,
the style was lively and attractive, and the dialogue was eminently
dramatic and sparkling.
But the interest of all these works has passed away. The "Memoirs"
have served their turn as a guide and aid to more regular historians, and
the composition which still keeps its author's fame alive is his
Correspondence with some of his numerous friends, male and female,
in England or abroad, which he maintained with an assiduity which
showed how pleasurable he found the task, while the care with which

he secured the preservation of his letters, begging his correspondents to
retain them, in case at any future time he should desire their return,
proves that he anticipated the possibility that they might hereafter be
found interesting by other readers than to those to whom they were
addressed.
But he did not suffer either his writings or the enrichment of
"Strawberry" with antiquarian treasures to engross the whole of his
attention. For the first thirty years and more of his public life he was a
zealous politician. And it is no slight proof how high was the reputation
for sagacity and soundness of judgement which he enjoyed, that in the
ministerial difficulties caused by Lord Chatham's illness, he was
consulted by the leaders of more than one section of the Whig party, by
Conway, the Duke of Bedford, the Duke of Grafton, Lord Holland, and
others; that his advice more than once influenced their determinations;
and that he himself drew more than one of the letters which passed
between them. Even the King himself was not ignorant of the weight he
had in their counsels, and, on one occasion at least, condescended to
avail himself of it for a solution of some of the embarrassments with
which their negotiations were beset.
But after a time his attendance in Parliament, which had never been
very regular, grew wearisome and distasteful to him. At the General
Election of 1768 he declined to offer himself again as a candidate for
Lynn, which he had represented for several years. And henceforth his
mornings were chiefly occupied with literature; the continuation of his
Memoirs; discussion of literary subjects with Gibbon, Voltaire, Mason,
and others, while his evenings were passed in the society of his friends,
a mode of enjoying his time in which he was eminently calculated to
shine, since abundant testimony has come down to us from many
competent judges of the charm of his conversation; the liveliness of his
disposition acting as a most attractive frame to the extent and variety of
his information.
Among his distractions were his visits to France, which for some time
were frequent. He had formed a somewhat singular intimacy with a
blind old lady, the Marquise du Deffand, a lady whose character in her

youth had been something less than doubtful, since she had been one of
the Regent Duc d'Orléans's numerous mistresses; but who had retained
in her old age much of the worldly acuteness and lively wit with which
she had borne her part in that clever, shameless society. Her salon was
now the resort of many personages of the highest distinction, even of
ladies themselves of the most unstained reputation, such as the
Duchesse de Choiseul; and the rumours or opinions which he heard in
their company enabled him to enrich