This little haul, taken at random13, is enough to show how great a strain the new method of editing lays upon the eye. But if the brain is at first inclined to jib at such perpetual solicitations, and to beg to be allowed to read the text in peace, it adjusts itself by degrees; grudgingly14 admits that many of these little facts are to the point; and finally becomes not merely a convert but a suppliant15 — asks not for less but for more and more and more. Why, to take one instance only, is not the name of Cole’s temporary cook’s sister divulged16? Thomas Wood was his servant; Thomas was left fifty pounds and allowed Cole’s coach to run away; Thomas’s younger brother James, known as “Jem,” ran errands successfully and had a child ready to be sworn to him; their sister, Molly, was for one month at least a cook and helped in the kitchen. But there was another sister and, after learning all about the Woods, it is positively17 painful not to know at least her Christian18 name.
Yet it may be asked, what has the name of Cole’s cook’s sister got to do with Horace Walpole? That is a question which it is impossible to answer briefly19; but it is proof of the editor’s triumph, justification20 of his system, and a complete vindication21 of his immense labour that he has convinced us, long before the end, that somehow or other it all hangs together. The only way to read letters is to read them thus stereoscopically. Horace is partly Cole; Cole is partly Horace; Cole’s cook is partly Cole; therefore Horace Walpole is partly Cole’s cook’s sister. Horace, the whole Horace, is made up of innumerable facts and reflections of facts. Each is infinitely22 minute; yet each is essential to the other. To elicit23 them and relate them is out of the question. Let us, then, concentrate for a moment upon the two main figures, in outline.
We have here, then, in conjunction the Honourable24 Horace Walpole and the Reverend William Cole. But they were two very different people. Cole, it is true, had been at Eton with Horace, where he was called by the famous Walpole group “Tozhy,” but he was not a member of that group, and socially he was greatly Walpole’s inferior. His father was a farmer, Horace’s father was a Prime Minister. Cole’s niece was the daughter of a cheesemonger; Horace’s niece married a Prince of the Blood Royal. But Cole was a man of solid good sense who made no bones of this disparity, and, after leaving Eton and Cambridge, he had become, in his quiet frequently flooded parsonage, one of the first antiquaries of the time. It was this common passion that brought the two friends together again.
For some reason, obscurely hidden in the psychology25 of the human race, the middle years of that eighteenth century which seems now a haven26 of bright calm and serene27 civilization, affected28 some who actually lived in it with a longing29 to escape — from its politics, from its wars, from its follies30, from its drabness and its dullness, to the superior charms of the Middle Ages. “I . . . hope,” wrote Cole in 1765, “by the latter end of the week to be among my admired friends of the twelfth or thirteenth century. Indeed you judge very right concerning my indifference31 about what is going forward in the world, where I live in it as though I was no way concerned about it except in paying, with my contemporaries, the usual taxes and impositions. In good truth I am very indifferent about my Lord Bute or Mr. Pitt, as I have long been convinced and satisfied in my own mind that all oppositions32 are from the ins and the outs, and that power and wealth and dignity are the things struggled for, not the good of the whole. . . . I hope what I have said will not be offensive.” Only one weekly newspaper, the CAMBRIDGE CHRONICLE, brought him news of the present moment. There at Bletchley or at Milton he sat secluded34, wrapped up from the least draught35, for he was terribly subject to sore throats; sometimes issuing forth36 to conduct a service, for he was, incidentally, a clergyman; driving occasionally to Cambridge to hobnob with his cronies; but always returning with delight to his study, where he copied maps, filled in coats of arms, and pored assiduously over those budgets of old manuscripts which were, as he said, “wife and children” to him. Now and again, it is true, he looked out of the window at the antics of his dog, for whose future he was careful to provide, or at those guinea fowl37 whose eggs he begged off Horace — for “I have so few amusements and can see these creatures from my study window when I can’t stir out of my room.”
But neither dog nor guinea fowl seriously distracted him. The hundred and fourteen folio volumes left by him to the British Museum testify to his professional industry. And it was precisely38 that quality — his professional industry — that brought the two so dissimilar men together. For Horace Walpole was by temperament39 an amateur. He was not, Cole admitted, “a true, genuine antiquary”; nor did he think himself one. “Then I have a wicked quality in an antiquary, nay40 one that annihilates41 the essence; that is, I cannot bring myself to a habit of minute accuracy about very indifferent points,” Horace admitted. “. . . I bequeath free leave of correction to the microscopic42 intellects of my continuators.” But he had what Cole lacked — imagination, taste, style, in addition to a passion for the romantic past, so long as that romantic past was also a civilized43 past, for mere1 “bumps in the ground” or “barrows and tumuli and Roman camps” bored him to death. Above all, he had a purse long enough to give visible and tangible44 expression — in prints, in gates, in Gothic temples, in bowers45, in old manuscripts, in a thousand gimcracks and “brittle46 transitory relics47” to the smouldering and inarticulate passion that drove the professional antiquary to delve48 like some indefatigable49 mole50 underground in the darkness of the past. Horace liked his brittle relics to be pretty, and to be authentic51, and he was always eager to be put on the track of more.
The greater part of the correspondence thus is concerned with antiquaries’ gossip; with parish registers and cartularies; with coats of arms and the Christian names of bishops53; with the marriages of kings’ daughters; skeletons and prints; old gold rings found in a field; dates and genealogies54; antique chairs in Fen33 farmhouses55; bits of stained glass and old Apostle spoons. For Horace was furnishing Strawberry Hill; and Cole was prodigiously57 adept58 at stuffing it, until there was scarcely room to stick another knife or fork, and the gorged59 owner of all this priceless lumber60 had to cry out: “I shudder61 when the bell rings at the gate. It is as bad as keeping an inn.” All the week he was plagued with staring crowds.
Were this all it would be, and indeed it sometimes is, a little monotonous62. But they were two very different men. They struck unexpected sparks in one another. Cole’s Walpole was not Conway’s Walpole; nor was Walpole’s Cole the good-natured old parson of the diary. Cole, of course, stressed the antiquary in Walpole; but he also brought out very clearly the limits of the antiquary in Walpole. Against Cole’s monolithic63 passion his own appears frivolous64 and flimsy. On the other hand, in contrast with Cole’s slow-plodding pen, his own shows its mettle65. He cannot flash, it is true — the subject, say, the names of Edward the Fourth’s daughters, forbids it — yet how sweetly English sings on his side of the page, now in a colloquialism66 —“a more flannel67 climate”— that Cole would never have ventured; now in a strain of natural music —“Methinks as we grow old, our only business here is to adorn68 the graves of our friends or to dig our own.” That strain was called forth by the death of their common friend, Thomas Gray. It was a death that struck at Cole’s heart, too, but produced no such echo in that robust69 organ. At the mere threat of Conway’s death, Horace was all of a twitter — his nerves were “so aspen.” It was a threat only; “Still has it operated such a revolution in my mind, as no time, AT MY AGE, can efface70. I have had dreams in which I thought I wished for fame —. . . I feel, I feel it was confined to the memory of those I love”— to which Cole replies: “For both your sakes I hope he will soon get well again. It is a misfortune to have so much sensibility in one’s nature as you are endued71 with: sufficient are one’s own distresses72 without the additional encumbrance73 of those of one’s friends.”
Nevertheless, Cole was by no means without distresses of his own. There was that terrible occasion when the horses ran away and his hat blew off and he sat with his legs in the air anticipating either death at the tollgate or a bad cold. Mercifully both were spared him. Again, he suffered tortures when, showing Dr. Gulston his prints, he begged him, as a matter of form, to take any he liked; whereupon Gulston —“that Algerine hog”— filled his portfolio74 with the most priceless. It is true that Cole made him pay for them in the end, but it was a most distressing75 business. And then what an agony it was when some fellow antiquaries dined with him, and, confined with the gout, he had to let them visit his study alone, to find next morning that an octavo volume, and a borrowed volume at that, was missing! “The Master is too honourable to take such a step,” but — he had his suspicions. And what was he to do? To confess the loss or to conceal76 it? To conceal it seemed better, and yet, if the owner found out, “I am undone77.” Horace was all sympathy. He loathed78 the whole tribe of antiquaries —“numskulls” he called them mumbling79 manuscripts with their toothless jaws80. “Their understandings seem as much in ruins as the things they describe,” he wrote. “I love antiquities81, but I scarce ever knew an antiquary who knew how to write upon them.”
He had all the aristocrat82’s contempt for the professional drudge83, and no desire whatsoever84 to be included among the sacred band of professional authors. “They are always in earnest, and think their profession serious, and dwell upon trifles, and reverence85 learning,” he snapped out. And yet, when writing to Cole he could confess what to a man of his own class he would have concealed86 — that he, too, reverenced87 learning when it was real, and admired no one more than a poet if he were genuine. “A page in a great author humbles88 me to the dust,” he wrote. And after deriding89 his contemporaries added, “Don’t think me scornful. Recollect90 that I have seen Pope, and lived with Gray.”
Certainly Cole’s obscure but bulky form revealed a side of Horace Walpole that was lost in the glitter of the great world. With that solid man of no social gift but prodigious56 erudition Horace showed himself not an antiquary, not a poet, not an historian, but what he was — the aristocrat of letters, the born expert who knew the sham91 intellect from the genuine as surely as the antiquary knew the faked genealogy92 from the authentic. When Horace Walpole praised Pope and Gray he knew what he was saying and meant it; and his shame at being hoisted93 into such high society as theirs rings true. “I know not how others feel on such occasions, but if anyone happens to praise me, all my faults gush94 into my face, and make me turn my eyes inward and outward with horror. What am I but a poor old skeleton, tottering95 towards the grave, and conscious of ten thousand weaknesses, follies, and worse! And for talents, what are mine, but trifling96 and superficial; and, compared with those of men of real genius, most diminutive97! . . . Does it become us, at past threescore each, to be saying fine things to one another? Consider how soon we shall both be nothing!” That is a tone of voice that he does not use in speaking — for his writing voice was a speaking voice — to his friends in the great world.
Again, Cole’s High Church and Tory convictions when they touched a very different vein98 in Walpole sometimes caused explosions. Once or twice the friends almost came to blows over religion. The Church of England had a substantial place in Cole’s esteem99. But to Walpole, “Church and presbytery are human nonsense invented by knaves100 to govern fools. EXALTED101 NOTIONS OF CHURCH MATTERS are contradictions in terms to the lowliness and humility102 of the gospel. There is nothing sublime103 but the Divinity. Nothing is sacred but as His work. A tree or a brute104 stone is more respectable as such, than a mortal called an archbishop, or an edifice105 called a church, which are the puny106 and perishable107 productions of men. . . . A Gothic church or convent fill one with romantic dreams — but for the mysterious, the Church in the abstract, it is a jargon108 that means nothing or a great deal too much, and I reject it and its apostles from Athanasius to Bishop52 Keene.” Those were outspoken109 words to a friend who wore a black coat. Yet they were not suffered to break up an intimacy110 of forty years. Cole, to whom Walpole’s little weaknesses were not unknown, contented111 himself by commenting sardonically112 at the end of the letter upon the lowliness and humility of the aristocracy, observed that “Mr. Walpole is piqued113, I can see, at my reflections on Abbot’s flattery”; but in his reply to Mr. Walpole he referred only to the weather, Mr. Tyson, and the gout.
Horace’s politics were equally detestable to Cole. He was, in writing at least, a red-hot republican, the bitter enemy of all those Tory principles that Cole revered114. That, again, was a difference that sometimes raised the temperature of the letters to fever heat — happily for us, for it allows us, reading over their shoulders, to see Horace Walpole roused — the dilettante115 become a man of action, chafing116 at his own inactivity “sitting with one’s arms folded” in a chair; deploring117 his country’s danger; remembering that if Cole is a country clergyman, he is a Walpole; the son of a Prime Minister; that his father’s son might have done more than fill Strawberry Hill with Gothic ornaments118; and that his father’s reputation is extremely dear to him. And yet did not gossip whisper that he was not his father’s son, and was there not, somewhere deep within him, an uneasy suspicion that there was a blot119 on his scutcheon, a freakish strain in his clear Norfolk blood?
Whoever his father may have been, his mother nature had somehow queered the pitch of that very complex human being who was called Horace Walpole. He was not simple; he was not single. As Cole noted120 with antiquarian particularity, Mr. Walpole’s letter of Friday, May 21St, 1762, was sealed with a “seal of red wax, a cupid with a large mask of a monkey’s face. An antique. Oval.” The cupid and the monkey had each set their stamp on Horace Walpole’s wax. He was mischievous121 and obscene; he gibbered and mocked and pelted122 the holy shrines123 with nutshells. And yet with what a grace he did it — with what ease and brilliancy and wit! In body, too, he was a contradiction — lean as a grasshopper124, yet tough as steel. He was lapped in luxury, yet never wore a great-coat, ate and drank as little as a fasting friar, and walked on wet grass in slippers125. He fribbled away his time collecting bric-a-brac and drinking tea with old ladies; yet wrote the best letters in the language in the midst of the chatter126; knew everyone; went everywhere; and, as he said, “lived post.” He seemed sometimes as heartless as a monkey; drove Chatterton, so people said, to suicide, and allowed old Madame du Deffand to die alone in despair. And yet who but Cupid wrote when Gray was dead, “I treated him insolently127; he loved me and I did not think he did”? Or again, “One loves to find people care for one, when they can have no view in it”? But it is futile128 to make such contradictions clash. There were a thousand subtler impressions stamped on the wax of Horace Walpole, and it is only posterity129, for whom he had a great affection, who will be able, when they have read all that he wrote to Mann and Conway and Gray and the sisters Berry and Madame du Deffand and a score of others; and what they wrote to him; and the innumerable notes at the bottom of the page about cooks and scullions and gardeners and old women in inns — it is only they who will be able, when Mr. Lewis has brought his magnificent work to an end, to say what indeed Horace Walpole was. Meanwhile, we, who only catch a fleeting glimpse and set down hastily what we make of it, can testify that he is the best company in the world — the most amusing, the most intriguing130 — the strangest mixture of ape and Cupid that ever was.
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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supplementary
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| adj.补充的，附加的 | |
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fixed
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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apoplectic
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wholesale
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placid
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disposition
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probity
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riotous
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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grudgingly
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suppliant
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divulged
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positively
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Christian
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briefly
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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vindication
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infinitely
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elicit
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honourable
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psychology
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haven
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serene
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affected
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longing
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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oppositions
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| （强烈的）反对( opposition的名词复数 )； 反对党； （事业、竞赛、游戏等的）对手； 对比 | |
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fen
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secluded
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draught
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forth
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fowl
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precisely
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temperament
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nay
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annihilates
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| n.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的名词复数 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的第三人称单数 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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civilized
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tangible
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bowers
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brittle
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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delve
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indefatigable
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mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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genealogies
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| n.系谱，家系，宗谱( genealogy的名词复数 ) | |
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farmhouses
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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gorged
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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shudder
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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monolithic
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| adj.似独块巨石的；整体的 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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colloquialism
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| n.俗话，白话，口语 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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69
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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70
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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71
endued
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| v.授予，赋予（特性、才能等）( endue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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73
encumbrance
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| n.妨碍物，累赘 | |
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74
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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75
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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76
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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79
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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80
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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81
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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82
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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83
drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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84
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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85
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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86
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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87
reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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88
humbles
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| v.使谦恭( humble的第三人称单数 )；轻松打败（尤指强大的对手）；低声下气 | |
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deriding
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的现在分词 ) | |
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90
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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genealogy
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| n.家系，宗谱 | |
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hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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96
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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101
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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102
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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103
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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104
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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105
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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106
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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107
perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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108
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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109
outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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110
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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111
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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112
sardonically
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| adv.讽刺地，冷嘲地 | |
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113
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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114
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
dilettante
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| n.半瓶醋，业余爱好者 | |
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116
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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117
deploring
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的现在分词 ) | |
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118
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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119
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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120
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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121
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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122
pelted
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| （连续地）投掷( pelt的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续抨击； 攻击； 剥去…的皮 | |
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123
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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124
grasshopper
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| n.蚱蜢，蝗虫，蚂蚱 | |
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125
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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126
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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127
insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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128
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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129
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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130
intriguing
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| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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