BLACKHEATH, August 1, 1766.
MY DEAR FRIEND: The curtain was at last drawn up, the day before
yesterday, and discovered the new actors, together with some of the old
ones. I do not name them to you, because to-morrow’s Gazette will do it
full as well as I could. Mr. Pitt, who had carte blanche given him, named
everyone of them: but what would you think he named himself for? Lord
Privy Seal; and (what will astonish you, as it does every mortal here)
Earl of Chatham. The joke here is, that he has had A FALL UP STAIRS, and
has done himself so much hurt, that he will never be able to stand upon
his leg’s again. Everybody is puzzled how to account for this step;
though it would not be the first time that great abilities have been
duped by low cunning. But be it what it will, he is now certainly only
Earl of Chatham; and no longer Mr. Pitt, in any respect whatever. Such an
event, I believe, was never read nor heard of. To withdraw, in the
fullness of his power and in the utmost gratification of his ambition,
from the House of Commons (which procured him his power, and which could
alone insure it to him), and to go into that hospital of incurables, the
House of Lords, is a measure so unaccountable, that nothing but proof
positive could have made me believe it: but true it is. Hans Stanley is
to go Ambassador to Russia; and my nephew, Ellis, to Spain, decorated
with the red riband. Lord Shelburne is your Secretary of State, which I
suppose he has notified to you this post, by a circular letter. Charles
Townshend has now the sole management of the House of Commons; but how
long he will be content to be only Lord Chatham’s vicegerent there, is a
question which I will not pretend to decide. There is one very bad sign
for Lord Chatham, in his new dignity; which is, that all his enemies,
without exception, rejoice at it; and all his friends are stupefied and
dumbfounded. If I mistake not much, he will, in the course of a year,
enjoy perfect ‘otium cum dignitate’. Enough of politics.
Is the fair, or at least the fat, Miss C----with you still? It must be
confessed that she knows the arts of courts, to be so received at
Dresden, and so connived at in Leicester-fields.
There never was so wet a summer as this has been, in the memory of man;
we have not had one single day, since March, without some rain; but most
days a great deal. I hope that does not affect your health, as great cold
does; for, with all these inundations, it has not been cold. God bless
you!