BACON'S OPINION OF TWICKENHAM.

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gold river, the next hour foul as the pestilent church-yard-was then, especially between Richmond and Teddington, a glassy, placid stream, reflecting on its margin the chestnuttrees of stately Ham, and the reeds and wild flowers which grew undisturbed in the fertile meadows of Petersham.

Lord Hervey, with the ladies of the court, Mrs. Howard as their chaperon, delighted in being wafted to that village, so rich in names which give to Twickenham undying associations with the departed great. Sometimes the effeminate valetudinarian, Hervey, was content to attend the Princess Caroline to Marble Hill only, a villa residence built by George II. for Mrs. Howard, and often referred to in the correspondence of that period. Sometimes the royal barge, with its rowers in scarlet jackets, was seen conveying the gay party; ladies in slouched hats, pointed over fair brows in front, with a fold of sarcenet round them, terminated in a long bow and ends behind-with deep falling mantles over dresses never cognizant of crinoline: gentlemen, with cocked hats, their bag-wigs and ties appearing behind; and beneath their puce-colored coats, delicate silk tights and gossamer stockings were visible, as they trod the mossy lawn of the Palace Gardens at Richmond, or, followed by a tiny greyhound, prepared for the lazy pleasures of the day.

Sometimes the visit was private; the sickly Princess Caroline had a fancy to make one of the group who are bound to Pope's villa. Twickenham, where that great little man had, since 1715, established himself, was pronounced by Lord Bacon to be the finest place in the world for study. "Let Twit nam Park," he wrote to his steward, Thomas Bushell, "which I sold in my younger days, be purchased, if possible, for a residence for such deserving persons to study in (since I ex perimentally found the situation of that place much convenient for the trial of my philosophical conclusions)-expressed in a paper sealed, to the trust-which I myself had put in practice, and settled the same by act of parliament, if the vicissitudes of fortune had not intervened and prevented me."

Twickenham continued, long after Bacon had penned this injunction, to be the retreat of the poet, the statesman, the scholar; the haven where the retired actress and broken novelist found peace; the abode of Henry Fielding, who lived in one of the back streets; the temporary refuge, from the world of London, of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, and the life-long home of Pope.

Let us picture to ourselves a visit from the princess to Pope's villa: As the barge, following the gentle bendings of the river, nears Twickenham, a richer green, a summer bright

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A VISIT TO POPE'S VILLA.

ness, indicates it is approaching that spot of which even Bishop Warburton says that the "beauty of the owner's poetic genius appeared to as much advantage in the disposition of these romantic materials as in any of his best-contrived poems." And the loved toil which formed the quincunx, which perforated and extended the grotto until it extended across the road to a garden on the opposite side-the toil which showed the gentler parts of Pope's better nature-has been respected, and its effects preserved. The enameled lawn, green as no other grass save that by the Thames side is green, is swept still by the light boughs of the famed willow. Every memorial of the bard was treasured by the gracious hands into which, after 1744, the classic spot fell-those of Sir William Stanhope. In the subterranean passage this verse appears; adulatory, it must be confessed:

"The humble roof, the garden's scanty line,

Ill suit the genius of the bard divine;

But fancy now assumes a fairer scope,

And Stanhope's plans unfold the soul of Pope."

It should have been Stanhope's "gold"—a metal which was not so abundant, nor indeed so much wanted in Pope's time as in our own.

As the barge is moored close to the low steps which lead up from the river to the villa, a diminutive figure, then in its prime (if prime it ever had), is seen moving impatiently forward. By that young-old face, with its large lucid speaking eyes that light it up, as does a rushlight in a cavern-by that twisted figure with its emaciated legs-by the large, sensible mouth, the pointed, marked, well-defined nose-by the wig, or hair pushed off in masses from the broad forehead and falling behind in tresses-by the dress, that loose, single-breasted black coat-by the cambric band and plaited shirt, without a frill, but fine and white, for the poor poet has taken infinite pains that day in self-adornment-by the delicate ruffle on that large thin hand, and still more by the clear, most musical voice which is heard welcoming his royal and noble guests, as he stands bowing low to the Princess Caroline, and bending to kiss hands by that voice which gained him more especially the name of the little nightingale-is Pope at once recognized, and Pope in the perfection of his days, in the very zenith of his fame.

One would gladly have been a sprite to listen from some twig of that then stripling willow which the poet had planted with his own hand, to the talk of those who chatted for a while under its shade, before they went in-doors to an elegant dinner at the usual hour of twelve. How delightful to hear,

THE ESSENCE OF SMALL TALK.

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unseen, the repartees of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, who comes down, it is natural to conclude, from her villa near to that of Pope. How fine a study might one not draw of the fine gentleman and the wit in Lord Hervey, as he is commanded by the gentle Princess Caroline to sit on her right hand; but his heart is across the table with Lady Mary! How amusing to observe the dainty but not sumptuous repast contrived with Pope's exquisite taste, but regulated by his habitual economy-for his late father, a worthy Jacobite hatter, erst in the Strand, disdained to invest the fortune he had amassed, from the extensive sale of cocked hats, in the Funds, over which a Hanoverian stranger ruled; but had lived on his capital of £20,000, as spendthrifts do (without either moral, religious, or political reasons), as long as it lasted him; yet he was no spendthrift. Let us look, therefore, with a liberal eye, noting, as we stand, how that fortune, in league with nature, who made the poet crooked, had maimed two of his fingers, such time as, passing a bridge, the poor little poet was overturned into the river, and he would have been drowned, had not the postillion broken the coach window and dragged the tiny body through the aperture. We mark, however, that he generally contrives to hide this defect, as he would fain have hidden every other from the lynx eyes of Lady Mary, who knows him, however, thoroughly, and reads every line of that poor little heart of his, enamored of her as it was.

Then the conversation! How gladly would we catch here some drops of what must have been the very essence of smalltalk, and small-talk is the only thing fit for early dinners! Our host is noted for his easy address, his engaging manners, his delicacy, politeness, and a certain tact he had of showing every guest that he was welcome in the choicest expressions and most elegant terms. Then Lady Mary! how brilliant is her slightest turn! how she banters Pope-how she gives double entendre for double entendre to Hervey! How sensible, yet how gay is all she says; how bright, how cutting, yet how polished is the equivoque of the witty, high-bred Hervey! He is happy that day-away from the coarse, passionate king, whom he hated with a hatred that burns itself out in his lordship's "Memoirs;" away from the somewhat exacting and pitiable queen; away from the hated Pelham, and the rival Grafton.

And conversation never flags when all, more or less, are congenial; when all are well-informed, well-bred, and resolved to please. Yet there is a canker in that whole assembly; that canker is a want of confidence: no one trusts the other; Lady Mary's encouragement of Hervey surprises and shocks the