ts bestowed on his learning by
some of his friends. The expressed estimate of his acquirements and
works which so offended Lord Macaulay was that "there is nobody so
superficial, that, except a little history, a little poetry, a little
painting, and some divinity, he knew nothing; he had always lived in the
busy world; had always loved pleasure; played loo till two or three in
the morning; haunted auctions--in short, did not know so much astronomy
as would carry him to Knightsbridge; not more physic than a physician;
nor, in short, anything that is called science. If it were not that he
laid up a little provision in summer, like the ant, he should be as
ignorant as the people he lived with."[1] In Lord Macaulay's view,
Walpole was never less sincere than when pronouncing such a judgement on
his works. He sees in it nothing but an affectation, fishing for
further praises; and, fastening on his account of his ordinary
occupations, he pronounces that a man of fifty should be ashamed of
playing loo till after midnight.

[Footnote 1: Letter to Mann, Feb. 6, 1760.]

In spite, however, of Lord Macaulay's reproof, something may be said in
favour of a man who, after giving his mornings to works which display no
little industry as well as talent, unbent his bow in the evening at
lively supper-parties, or even at the card-table with fair friends,
where the play never degenerated into gambling. And his disparagement of
his learning, which Lord Macaulay ridicules as affectation, a more
candid judgement may fairly ascribe to sincere modesty. For it is plain
from many other passages in his letters, that he really did undervalue
his own writings; and that the feeling which he thus expressed was
genuine is to a great extent proved by the patience, if not
thankfulness, with which he allowed his friend Mann to alter passages in
"The Mysterious Mother," and confessed the alterations to be
improvements. It may be added that Lord Macaulay's disparagement of his
judgement and his taste is not altogether consistent with his admission
that Walpole's writings possessed an "irresistible charm" that "no man
who has written so much is so seldom tiresome;" that, even in "The
Castle of Otranto," which he ridicules, "the story never flags for a
moment," and, what is more to our present purpose, he adds that "his
letters are with reason considered his best performance;" and that those
to his friend at Florence, Sir H. Mann, "contain much information