BLACKHEATH, July 20, 1764.
MY DEAR FRIEND: I have this moment received your letter of the 3d from
Prague, but I never received that which you mention from Ratisbon; this
made me think you in such rapid motion, that I did not know where to take
aim. I now suppose that you are arrived, though not yet settled, at
Dresden; your audiences and formalities are, to be sure, over, and that
is great ease of mind to you.
I have no political events to acquaint you with; the summer is not the
season for them, they ripen only in winter; great ones are expected
immediately before the meeting of parliament, but that, you know, is
always the language of fears and hopes. However, I rather believe that
there will be something patched up between the INS and the OUTS.
The whole subject of conversation, at present, is the death and will of
Lord Bath: he has left above twelve hundred thousand pounds in land and
money; four hundred thousand pounds in cash, stocks, and mortgages; his
own estate, in land, was improved to fifteen thousand pounds a-year, and
the Bradford estate, which he-----is as much; both which, at only
five-and twenty years’ purchase, amount to eight hundred thousand pounds;
and all this he has left to his brother, General Pulteney, and in his own
disposal, though he never loved him. The legacies he has left are
trifling; for, in truth, he cared for nobody: the words GIVE and BEQUEATH
were too shocking for him to repeat, and so he left all in one word to
his brother. The public, which was long the dupe of his simulation and
dissimulation, begins to explain upon him; and draws such a picture of
him as I gave you long ago.
Your late secretary has been with me three or four times; he wants
something or another, and it seems all one to him what, whether civil or
military; in plain English, he wants bread. He has knocked at the doors
of some of the ministers, but to no purpose. I wish with all my heart
that I could help him: I told him fairly that I could not, but advised
him to find some channel to Lord B-----, which, though a Scotchman, he
told me he could not. He brought a packet of letters from the office to
you, which I made him seal up; and keep it for you, as I suppose it makes
up the series of your Ratisbon letters.
As for me, I am just what I was when you left me, that is, nobody. Old
age steals upon me insensibly. I grow weak and decrepit, but do not
suffer, and so I am content.
Forbes brought me four books of yours, two of which were Bielefeldt’s
“Letters,” in which, to my knowledge, there are many notorious lies.
Make my compliments to Comte Einsiedel, whom I love and honor much; and
so good-night to ‘seine Excellentz’.
Now our correspondence may be more regular, and I expect a letter from
you every fortnight. I will be regular on my part: but write oftener to
your mother, if it be but three lines.